Page 1 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

Oh no! The car!

Nahla’s breath hitched as her gaze locked onto the tiny, golden-brown puppy toddling into the street just outside the café window. No collar. No sense. Just a fluffball of innocence and wobbly legs, sniffing the air like the world was his playground.

He didn’t see the truck.

Nahla dug her nails into the linen-covered edge of the bistro table, heart thudding as the roar of an engine grew louder. Through the glass, she saw the flash of steel as the truck barreled toward the intersection. Her muscles seized even as the puppy nosed forward, tongue lolling, oblivious.

“Nahla?” her father prompted gently, his deep, gruff voice barely penetrating the thick fog of panic closing in around her.

But she didn’t hear him.

Everything else—the quiet murmur of foreign diplomats, the clink of cutlery, the smell of butter and garlic drifting from the kitchen—vanished. There was only the truck. The puppy. The impossible math of speed versus softness, of steel verses fur.

Her chair scraped loudly against the floor as she rose to her feet. “No!”

She couldn’t stop herself. Couldn’t breathe. Her limbs froze as if her terror had petrified her right there, halfway between royal decorum and wild instinct.

At the last possible second, the truck driver swerved, tires screeching as the vehicle fishtailed toward the center of the road.

The puppy paused mid-step, blinking as the gust of air from the truck ruffled his ears.

The truck barely missed another car, slamming to a halt inches from a collision. Horns blared. A woman screamed.

Then silence.

A tense, breathless moment passed as the puppy, utterly unfazed, resumed his meandering journey to the far curb, tail wagging cheerfully.

Except… Nahla’s heart was still lodged in her throat.

The driver of the truck scrubbed a hand over his face, then eased the vehicle forward, his shoulders sagging with relief. The other driver followed suit, also visibly rattled. Inside the restaurant, the conversation had stopped, and even the waitstaff hovered, uncertain.

Nahla didn’t wait.

“I’ll be right back,” she breathlessly announced, snatching her bag. Her father barely nodded before she was halfway to the door, offering only a fleeting, apologetic glance to the man seated across from them.

She hadn't been paying attention to the conversation anyway. Something about hydropower and cross-border cooperation—dams and capacities and percentages. The kind of conversation that made her mind wander and her eyes glaze over. She suspected her presence wasn’t required so much as requested , and for a reason she was beginning to guess.

Had this lunch been a setup?

She glanced over her shoulder as she pushed the door open.

The man her father had been speaking with—a royal prince, apparently—had the soft features of someone who had never faced a challenge in his life.

His weak chin and thinning hair didn’t help his case, nor did the way he kept dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, as if the pate? held the power to derail a treaty.

Nope. Not interested.

She stepped onto the street, already forgetting him. She was Nahla Al-Sintra, the only daughter of Sheik Khal Al-Sintra of Lativa, and she had better things to do than endure awkward matchmaking attempts over gourmet food. Like, for instance, rescuing a dog from becoming paté.

Besides, she already knew what kind of man drew her interest. She’d met one at a diplomatic event last year—dark-eyed, all sharp angles and unreadable silences.

Of course, he’d also been aloof, smug, and frustratingly immune to her charm.

She’d spent the entire evening alternately wondering what it would be like to kiss him or how satisfying it would be to throw her wine in his face.

If Nahla had been a bit… off … over the past year, it wasn’t for lack of trying to move on.

It was just—well, how was one supposed to forget a man like that ?

He’d been more intriguing than anyone she’d ever met.

Dark-eyed, unreadable, and maddening in his stillness, like he was constantly thinking five moves ahead.

But no. No, no, no.

She and her best friend had dissected the situation over espresso and gelato, listing his flaws like it was an Olympic sport. Arrogant. Unsmiling. Remote. He hadn’t even said goodbye properly. Definitely not the kind of man she needed.

She needed someone warm. Safe. Affectionate.

She’d grown up hugged to within an inch of her life.

Her father, Sheik Khal Al-Sintra of Lativa, ruled a massive, powerful kingdom but still made time to steal her fries and ruffle her hair like she was five.

Her brother Zayn—obnoxious, brash, and loyal to a fault—had once threatened to throttle her prom date for letting her cry.

And her cousins? Tall, muscular, charming nightmares with permanent grins and strong opinions about her wardrobe.

Yes. She needed a man like that .

Nahla stepped out onto the street, sunlight bouncing off car windshields and casting sharp gold lines across the pavement.

She was only vaguely aware of the two shadows falling into place behind her—her bodyguards, Karim and Hassan.

She slowed, just slightly, to give them room to maneuver.

They knew her habits. She knew their concerns.

There were always risks when your last name echoed through international headlines.

But at the moment, she had a mission . A very fuzzy, four-legged mission.

Already, she was composing the shot in her mind—the soft blur of the background, the halo of light around his floppy ears, the bright glint of mischief in the little guy’s eyes.

She would take his picture first. Then scoop him up, check for a hidden tag, and if needed, bring him to a shelter.

She could post the photos online, offer updates, maybe even create a little reel.

With those eyes and that lolling tongue? He’d be adopted in a heartbeat.

Unless…

Unless she could sneak him onto her father’s jet?

Don’t be ridiculous , she told herself. Her father still hadn’t forgiven her for the kitten fiasco. One tiny accident in his Italian leather shoes and he’d declared their palace a no-pet zone for eternity. She could still hear his roar when he’d stepped in it.

A flash of movement caught her eye—just ahead, a wiggling golden blur. “He’s over there!” she called over her shoulder, pointing.

The puppy was sniffing his way toward a narrow alley, tail up and wagging.

Nahla crossed the street, pulling out her digital camera, her fingers moving on muscle memory as she adjusted the lens.

The zoom clicked softly in her hands as she knelt on the uneven sidewalk, heels biting into the balls of her feet.

The puppy paused in a sunbeam just at the alley’s mouth. His ears perked. He tilted his head. Then— he smiled . Or at least, it looked like he smiled, with his pink tongue out and his whole back half wiggling with delight.

“Oh, stop it, you heartbreaker,” she whispered, snapping shot after shot. “You know you’re cute.”

He plopped down right in the center of the sunbeam, lifting one paw in a half-wave, half-wobble. The effect was too much. She nearly squealed, giddy from the sheer adorableness of it.

Then—

A door further down the alley creaked open. The puppy startled but didn’t run.

Two men stepped into view, shoulders hunched, talking low. One of them carried a case of something—bottled water, maybe?—the other had a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Nahla didn’t move, but her fingers froze on the shutter.

Sunlight glinted off the wet pavement, illuminating the dirty walls, the crumpled paper at the edges of the alley…and the puppy, still seated like a model in a spotlight. His golden fur practically glowed against the dark grime. The men—unkempt, unaware—provided an accidental but dramatic frame.

Nahla barely noticed the gritty scrape of wet cement biting into her bare knee.

Her focus was laser sharp, her camera an extension of her fingers as she continued snapping shots—adjusting angle, light, composition.

The two men were nearly gone now, their backs receding down the alley as they carried a heavy-looking box stamped with strange lettering.

She squinted at the print, trying to decipher the language. Cyrillic? No. Not Arabic either. She spoke six languages, and whatever this was…it wasn’t familiar.

Her instincts flickered, but she pushed the worry aside and snapped one last frame.

The camera clicked.

Then the puppy turned.

Those velvet-soft eyes locked onto hers, full of innocent curiosity and a dopey kind of happiness that made her heart flutter. His pink tongue hung sideways from his mouth like it had gotten bored halfway through panting. He tilted his head.

“Hello, you sweet, ridiculous thing,” Nahla murmured.

She reached into her oversized tote, rummaging around her notebook and spare battery pack until she found a half-smashed granola-and-yogurt protein bar. Tearing it open, she broke off a chunk and tossed it gently toward him.

“Hungry?” she asked softly.

The puppy sniffed once, then launched himself toward the food like a tiny, fur-covered missile. His paws skidded a little on the damp concrete, and he made a happy, snorty sound as he devoured the piece in seconds. He looked up, tail wagging furiously, as if to say, More, please.

Nahla laughed and reached out, slowly. He leaned in, letting her scratch behind his ears, his whole back end wiggling with joy. When she stroked the soft fur between his ribs, she winced. His bones were too sharp beneath her palm.

“You poor baby,” she whispered.

He didn’t protest when she scooped him into her arms. Instead, he immediately melted against her chest with a tiny sigh. His fur smelled faintly of damp cardboard and alley mud, but Nahla didn’t care. She fished out another protein bar and let him nibble while she cradled him against her chest.