Книга - Healing The Sheikh’s Heart

Healing The Sheikh's Heart
Annie O'Neil


A doctor for the desert kingBrooding billionaire Sheikh Idris Al Khalil wants one thing—the gift of hearing for his daughter, Amira—and he’s willing to pay anything to get it! Enter Dr Robyn Kelly, whose whirlwind approach to life sends his senses into overdrive.Now, as the tension between Paddington’s ENT Specialist and the guarded sheikh mounts, Robyn can’t help but wonder…is life in the desert with Idris and little Amira the family happy ever after she’s always dreamed of?Paddington Children’s HospitalCaring for children - and captivating hearts!







A doctor for the desert king

Brooding billionaire Sheikh Idris Al Khalil wants one thing—the gift of hearing for his daughter, Amira—and he’s willing to pay anything to get it! Enter Dr. Robyn Kelly, whose whirlwind approach to life sends his senses into overdrive.

Now, as the tension between Paddington’s ENT specialist and the guarded sheikh mounts, Robyn can’t help but wonder...is life in the desert with Idris and little Amira the family happy-ever-after she’s always dreamed of?


Dear Reader (#u3fa03665-a218-53ae-8b9c-694386bb1b82),

This is the first time I have written for a proper continuity, straight from the heart of Mills & Boon’s Medical Romance editorial team at True Love Towers, and let me tell you—I’d do it again in a heartbeat!

I absolutely adored writing this book and working with the other wonderful authors. What a fabulous experience, much like working in a hospital with a smart, engaging, funny, busy-falling-in-love team of doctors. I know it’s an oft-trotted-out line that a writer’s profession is a lonely one, but this job certainly wasn’t. It was definitely a group experience, and so much the better for it—in my humble opinion!

I became so engaged in the world of Paddington Children’s Hospital I even ran a half-marathon for Great Ormond Street Hospital, London’s premier (real-life) hospital for children. And I’m no athlete. It took a while, but it was worth it. I hope you find yourself enjoying ‘working’ your way through this series as much as I enjoyed writing Healing the Sheikh’s Heart.

Remember not to be shy. I love hearing from readers.

You can find me on Facebook,

Twitter (@annieoneilbooks (https://twitter.com/annieoneilbooks?lang=en)) and on my website: annieoneilbooks.com (http://www.annieoneilbooks.com).

Happy reading!

Annie O’


ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with her leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking, and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now Annie splits her time between corralling her husband into helping her with their cows, baking, reading, barrel racing (not really!) and spending some very happy hours at her computer, writing.

Books by Annie O’Neil

Mills & Boon Medical Romance

Hot Latin Docs

Santiago’s Convenient Fiancée

Christmas Eve Magic

The Nightshift Before Christmas

The Monticello Baby Miracles

One Night, Twin Consequences

One Night…with Her Boss

London’s Most Eligible Doctor

Her Hot Highland Doc

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) for more titles.


Healing the Sheikh’s Heart

Annie O’Neil






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This one is for all the gals who worked on the series. I was a first-timer and you made it a wonderful experience. A special shout-out to the fabulous Fiona Lowe, who always helps me keep my head screwed on, and Karin Baine, my partner in googly-eyes.


Contents

Cover (#u027fe9bc-c335-5de9-a322-a036fe49cdcd)

Back Cover Text (#u80fd40fd-a074-5e7f-a38e-b8a967d36709)

Dear Reader (#u7884ed49-88e6-58a2-b7f9-48398a6f9b29)

About the Author (#udfbbf735-7e24-5369-a166-1e48dca4520e)

Title Page (#u54a82c44-ec9b-54a0-b782-cb3c23f81525)

Dedication (#u51e3b30e-96ba-5ad2-985c-31bfe4f82ed6)

CHAPTER ONE (#udd965eae-2275-54e8-ab42-4650f6259147)

CHAPTER TWO (#ufea9ed63-dfb9-5dfc-bd2c-9722faf9a032)

CHAPTER THREE (#uaa8f5a0e-c6ba-5371-99d0-cd79e75725b6)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u3fa03665-a218-53ae-8b9c-694386bb1b82)

“NEXT!”

Sure, it was clichéd, but so was the interview Idris had been forced to bring to an abrupt halt. How superficial did these people think he was?

His name on a hospital wing for having his daughter’s surgery at the Chelsea Children’s Clinic? Ridiculous. The money wasted on ribbon-cutting ceremonies and plaques should be spent on the children. In hospital. Wasn’t that the point of a large donation? Not lavish displays of wealth and largesse. He had one concern and one concern only—bringing the gift of sound into his little girl’s silent world. He turned at the gentle ahem prompt from Kaisha, all too aware this was exactly the sort of thing Amira couldn’t experience.

“Are you ready for the next one?”

“Are there many more? I don’t know how much more of this misplaced adulation I can take.”

His assistant appeared by his side, scanning the printouts on her leather-clad clipboard. The one with the royal crest that always ramped up the anxious-to-please smiles of his interviewees. Surgeons at the top of their games! He sucked in an embarrassed breath on their behalf, using the three-two-one exhale to try to calm himself.

“No, Your Excellency. We’ve only got three more.”

“Kaisha, please.” He only just stopped himself from snapping. “It’s Idris when we’re alone. There’s only so much sycophancy a man can take in a day. You, of all people, know how important it is we find the right doctor for Amira.”

“Yes, Your... Idris.” Kaisha winced, did a variation of a curtsy, then threw her arms up in the air with the futility of getting it right and left the room. They both knew there was no need for a curtsy. They both knew Idris’s glowering mood was virtually impossible to lift. He’d worn his “thunder face,” as Amira liked to call it, near enough every day for the past seven years.

Despite his headache, an overdose of London’s medical glitterati and a growing need to get out and stride off his frustration in one of London’s sprawling royal parks, Idris smiled. Kaisha was loyal, intelligent and the last person he should be venting his frustration on. He’d hired her because she specialized in Da’har’s rich history. Not for her skills as a PA. Perhaps he should hire her a PA to take up the slack.

He cupped his chin, stretching his neck first one way, then the next, willing the tension of the day to leave him...if not the penthouse suite altogether.

He crossed the impressive expanse of the suite’s main sitting room. The “trophy suite” no less. Even he had winced at the pompous moniker but the location and views were incomparable. Nothing was off the shelf at Wyckham Place. Handcrafted tables, bespoke art pieces hung to match the modern, but undeniably select, furnishings and decor. He lived a life of privilege and preferred this type of understated elegance to flashy shows of gold-plated wealth. Apart from which, Amira liked the view of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament the penthouse suite afforded. Anything to bring a smile to his little girl’s face. She was so serious all the time. Little wonder, he supposed, without a mother’s tender care and a father more prone to gravitas than gaiety.

His eyes hit a mirror as they left the view—the image confirming his thoughts. Hard angles, glinting eyes and the glower of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was a time when all he would’ve seen in return was a broad smile. When life was little short of perfect.

His gaze snagged on his grimace. Losing his wife had all but ripped his easily won grin straight from his face.

He looked away. Self-reflection had been another casualty. All that remained was his daughter’s happiness and the well-being of Da’har. If a nation’s character could run in a man’s genes he knew he embodied all that the small Gulf nation stood for. Pride. Strength. Resilience.

His dark eyes hit the solid door of the suite, beyond which were two of his most trusted employees. Beyond them, at the lift, two more. And in the foyer of the hotel more waited, innocuously, in plain clothes. They were meant to provide a sense of security. Today it felt stifling.

A sudden urge overtook him to tug on a hat and walk out into the streets of London, bodyguards left behind none the wiser, and become...no one in particular. But finding the right surgeon for his daughter was paramount. He’d tolerate near enough anything for her. Even torture by fawning hospital officials. He was mortal, after all. A true god would have foreseen the complications his wife had endured during the birth of their beautiful daughter. A truer one would have saved her.

“How long has Amira been at the zoo?” Idris called over his shoulder.

Kaisha appeared by his side again. “Only an hour or so, Your—Idris. As you requested, they cleared the zoo of other patrons so Amira could have a private tour.”

He wondered, fleetingly, how Kaisha did that. Just...appeared. Maybe she’d been in the room the entire time and he simply hadn’t noticed. One of his recently “acquired” traits.

Not so recent, he reminded himself. The seven longest years of his life. The only light in that time? His beautiful daughter.

“Excellent. Amira always takes ages with the giraffes and penguins. And remember, I don’t want her anywhere near the hotel until we find the right person. If I have to pay to keep the zoo open longer, that’s not a problem.”

Even Idris didn’t miss the pained expression Kaisha tried to hide from him as she lifted her clipboard to hide her features.

“What is it, Kaisha?”

“It’s just...”

“Out with it!” Patience might be a virtue but it was most likely because it was in short supply. Particularly in his hotel suite.

“You’ve seen most of the specialists already and haven’t bothered to hear any of them out.”

“They all seemed more interested in attaching the Al Khalil name to their hospitals—or the Al Khalil money, rather—than in my daughter. She’s the entire point of this exercise. Cutting-edge medicine. The best money can buy. Not getting my name spread across London! If Amira hadn’t wanted to see that musical I would’ve flown everyone to Da’har and not wasted my time.”

Kaisha, to her credit, nodded somberly. She had heard it all before. In between each of the interviews today, in fact. And the day before. Any patience in the room was Kaisha’s alone. Idris was more than aware he had a tether and was swiftly approaching the very end of it.

“Right! It’s the next person on the list or we’re off to Boston Pediatrics or New York ENT. Enough of this nonsense. All right?”

“Yes, Your Ex—Idris.” Kaisha gave a quick smile, proud to have remembered the less formal address in the nick of time. “Shall I fetch the next candidate?”

“We might as well get it over with,” Idris grumbled, settling back into the only chair that comfortably accommodated his long limbs. “Who is it, please?”

“Uh—yes, sorry—it’s Robyn Kelly. Dr. Robyn Kelly. Salaam Alaikum.”

Idris looked up sharply. The voice answering him was most definitely not Kaisha’s.

Alssamawat aljamila!

The pair of eyes unabashedly meeting his own were the most extraordinary color.

Amber.

Lit from within just as a valued piece of the fossilized resin would be if it were held up to the sun. Mesmerizing.

The sharp realization that he was staring, responding to this woman in a way he had only done once before, made him bite out angrily, though she bore no blame for his transgression.

“How did you get in here?”

“Walked,” she answered plainly, her wayward blond curls falling forward as she looked down. “With these.” She pointed at her feet, clad in the sort of trainers he would’ve expected to see on a teenager. His eyes shot back to hers when he heard her giggling as if he had just asked the silliest question in the world.

“Oh!” She popped a finger up as a sign he should take note. “Your...I think they’re your bodyguards...kindly let me in to ‘powder my nose’ a few minutes early. Hope that was all right. And it’s Robyn with a y not an i—i.e., not like the little birdie up in the trees but pretty close! Blame my parents,” she finished with a playful shrug.

He narrowed his eyes, assessing the new arrival as coolly as he could considering she looked about as dangerous as a baby lamb. Even so, no one got past his bodyguards. Ever. And yet this amber-eyed sylph had done just that. What if she’d found Amira and stolen her away? His heart seized at the thought.

Pragmatics forced him to blink away the foolish notion with a stern reminder that this...“Robyn”...was very human and that his daughter was safe and well.

His gaze returned to Robyn. A couple of inches above average height. About his age—midthirties. Slender. At least what he could see of her, as most of her body was hidden beneath an oversize trench coat that would’ve been stylish if she’d bought the correct size or used the belt as intended rather than as a long rope to swing round and round like an anxious cowgirl as she awaited his response. A wild spray of golden curls. Untamed. A makeup-free face. Evidence the “nose-powdering” was a euphemism. Her cheeks were pink...with the cold, perhaps? By Da’harian standards, the day was wintry. A three-year stint at an English university had taught him the on-again, off-again late-summer rainstorms were normal. In keeping with the storm-tossed treetops quaking along the riverbanks below, Robyn Kelly was looking similarly windswept and ever so slightly unkempt.

Perhaps more faerie or wayward pixie than sylph, then.

The mythical creatures, he suspected, didn’t giggle. Nor did they tug their fingers through their hair when it was too late to make a good first impression.

Even so—he shifted in his seat—it was easy enough to picture Robyn in gossamer with a set of diaphanous wings taking flight over the palace gardens of Da’har.

Mercifully, he caught a glimpse of Kaisha appearing, and gave his throat a quick clear as if it would shunt away the images Robyn’s presence elicited.

Kaisha shot an apologetic look at Idris. She didn’t seem to know how Robyn had entered the suite any more than he did. “Dr. Kelly, could we offer you some coffee or—”

“Bless you, love! I’d kill for a good old-fashioned cup of builder’s.” Robyn’s face lit up with a bright smile at Kaisha’s instantly furrowed brow. “Apologies!” She laughed. “I forget English is your...what is it—third or fourth language?”

“Fourth.” Kaisha smiled shyly.

“Fourth! I should be so lucky.” Robyn’s amber eyes flicked to Idris as if to say, Can you believe this girl?

“And such different languages, as well. If I remember from our emails, you have the Da’har dialect, Arabic, French and English?”

Kaisha nodded.

“Impressive. The only other language I speak is ‘menu.’ Builder’s tea,” Robyn explained, hardly pausing for breath. “It means brewed strong and with a healthy dollop of milk.”

“Not cream?”

“No, love.” Robyn shook her head with a gentle smile. “I’m not so posh as all that. And if you have a couple of biccies tucked away in there somewhere so much the better.” She turned on the heel of what the cool kids would call her “trendy kicks” to face Idris. “I’m sorry. This is all a bit whirlwindy of me, isn’t it? Shall I begin again? A bit more officially?” She stuck out her hand without waiting for an answer. “Dr. Kelly from Paddington Children’s Hospital and you are...?”

“Sheikh Idris Al Khalil,” he answered, rising to his full height and accepting her proffered hand, bemused to have to introduce himself at all.

“Great!” Robyn gave his hand a quick, sharp shake and just as quickly extracted her hand with a little wriggle as if he’d squeezed it too hard and not the other way around. “Amira’s father.” Her eyes darted around the room as she spoke. “Excellent. All right if I just throw my mac here on the sofa or would you rather I grab a hanger from somewhere so you could hang it up on...?” Her eyes continued to scan the room for an appropriate place to hang her soaked raincoat while he found himself completely and utterly at a loss for words.

No one had asked him to lift so much as a finger for them since...ever. Not that he minded lending a hand to a person in need, but...her lack of interest in his position in the Middle East, let alone the world, was refreshing. If not slightly disarming.

He arched an eyebrow as she twisted around, untangling herself from the tan overcoat and about three meters’ worth of hand-knitted scarf, muttering all the while about “British summers.”

She pulled off the coat, managing to get an arm stuck in one of the sleeves, went through a microscopic and lightning-speed thought process before, rather unceremoniously, yanking her arm out and turning the sleeve inside out in the process. She gave an exasperated sigh, bundled the whole coat up with the scarf and tossed it into the corner of the überchic sofa before flopping onto the other corner in a show of faux despair.

He felt exhausted just watching her. And not a little intrigued.

Idris flicked his eyes away from Robyn’s, finding the golden glow of them a bit too captivating. More so than her ensemble: a corduroy skirt that had seen the washing machine more than a few times, a flowered top with a button dangling precariously from a string. The trainers... More student than elite surgeon.

She was a marked contrast to the four preceding candidates who had all looked immaculate. Expensive suits. Silk ties. Freshly polished shoes. All coming across as if their mothers had dressed them for their first day at school. He huffed out a single, mirthless laugh. Little good it had done them.

“What? Is there something wrong?” Robyn asked, her gaze following his to her cream-colored top dappled with pink tulips, a flush of color hitting her cheekbones when her eyes lit on a stain.

“Ah! Apologies!” she chirped, then laughed, pulling her discarded, well-worn leather satchel up from the ground where she’d dropped it when she came in and began digging around for a moment before triumphantly revealing a half-used supersize packet of wipes. “We just had congratulations cupcakes at the hospital for one of the surgeons who’s newly engaged and I shared one with a patient while we were reading and—” she threw up her hands in a What can you do? gesture “—frosting!”

She took a dab at the streak of pink icing with a finger and he watched, mesmerized, as the tip of her tongue popped out, swirled around her finger, then made another little swipe along her full lower lip. “Buttercream. I just love that stuff! Doesn’t stop the children from getting it absolutely everywhere, though, does it?”

She began scrubbing at her top with the wipe, chattering away as she did. “Bless them. Being in hospital is bad enough, but having to worry about manners?” She shrugged an indecipherable response into the room, clearly not expecting him to join in on the one-sided conversation. “Then again, if the hospital weren’t on the brink of closing I probably wouldn’t be here making a class-A idiot out of myself. I’d be in surgery where I belong.”

Her eyes flicked up and met his.

“Uh-oh.” Her upper teeth took hold of her full lower lip as her face creased into an apologetic expression. “Out-loud voice?” Again, she didn’t wait for an answer, shook her head and returned to her task. “That’s what they get for sending the head of surgery and not PR!”

Idris watched near openmouthed, trying to divine if she was mad or if he was for letting her ramble on, all the while dabbing her blouse a bit too close to the gentle swell of her...

He forced his gaze away, feeling his shoulders cinch and release as Robyn’s monologue continued unabated. She hadn’t noticed. Just as well. He was in the market for a surgeon, not a lover.

“We, meaning everyone at the Castle—aka Paddington’s—obviously imagine Amira is a gorgeous little girl, and I, for one, can’t wait to meet her. So!” Robyn dropped the used wipe into her satchel and clapped her hands onto her knees. “Where is she?”

“I’m sorry?” Idris crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, all the while locking eyes with her. He was used to conducting interviews. Not the other way around. Who was this woman? Minihurricane or a much-needed breath of fresh air?

* * *

“Amira?” Robyn prompted, panicking for a second that she’d walked into the wrong Sheikh’s suite in the wrong fancy hotel. All the fripperies and hoo-ha of these places made her nervous. Or was it just the Sheikh? Idris.

He had breathtaking presence. The photo the hospital had supplied with his bio had been flattering—pitch-black eyes, high cheekbones, dark chestnut hair—a tick in all of the right boxes, so that was little wonder. But in real life?

A knee-wobbler.

She only hoped it didn’t show. Much.

She tried a discreet sidelong look in his direction but the full power of his dark-eyed gaze threatened a growing impatience.

He had said he was Idris Al Khalil and not the long-lost son of Omar Sharif, right?

“Amira,” she repeated, unsuccessfully reining her voice back to its normal low octave. “Where did you say your daughter was?”

“Out,” came the curt reply.

Huh. Not a flicker of emotion.

Still waters running deep or just a protective papa bear?

Not the way she usually liked to do things, but then she wasn’t in the habit of “pitching” herself to be the surgeon of choice, either. One of the few things she solidly knew about herself was that when it came to Ear, Nose and Throat surgeries, she was one of the best. If she thought there was someone else better for the job she wouldn’t have even showed up. But this was her gig. She’d known it from the moment she saw Amira’s case history.

She tipped her chin upward, eyes narrowing as she watched Idris observe her in return. His black eyes met hers with a near tactile force. Unnerving.

She looked away. Maybe this was some powerful sheikh-type rite of passage she had to go through. She crinkled her nose for a moment before chancing another glance at him.

Yup. Still watching her. Expectantly. Still super-gorgeous.

She pursed her lips. He’d better not be waiting for a song and dance.

She glanced at her watch.

That was about half a second used up, then.

Looked up at the ceiling—eyes catching with his on the way up.

Still staring at her.

She remembered a trick one of her colleagues taught her. Pretend he was in his underwear. She gave him her best measured look all the while feeling her blush deepen as she pictured all six-foot-something of Idris naked, which was really...much nicer than she probably should be finding the experience.

This whole staring/not staring thing was a bit unnerving. Part of her wished she’d brought a sock puppet.

Robyn! Do not resort to sock puppets!

She clapped her hands onto her knees again.

“So...what do I call you?”

His dark eyebrows drew together into a consternated furrow.

“Idris.”

“Oh!” She blinked her surprise. “Phew! I was a bit nervous there that I was meant to bow or ‘your highness’ you or something. Idris. Great. Beautiful name. I believe that’s after one of the Islamic prophets in the Qur’an. Yes? Did you know it’s also a Welsh name meaning ‘ardent lord’ or ‘prince’? Fitting, right?”

“I am neither a prophet nor a prince,” he answered tightly.

Okay. So he was a king, or a sheikh, or a sheikh king. Whatever. It made no difference to her, not with how full her plate was with the hospital on the brink of closing and an endless list of patients Paddington’s could help if only its doors were kept open. Besides—she chewed on her lower lip as she held another untimed staring contest with him—she was just making chitchat until his daughter showed up.

Blink.

He won. Whether or not he knew it. Who could stare at all that...chiseled perfection without blinking? He had it all. The proud cheekbones. The aquiline nose. Deliciously perfect caramel-colored skin. The ever so slightly cleft chin just visible beneath more than a hint of a five o’clock shadow. She didn’t know why, but she was almost surprised at his short, immaculately groomed dark hair. He would’ve suited a mane of the stuff—blowing in the wind as he rode a horse bareback across the dunes. Or whatever it was sheikhs did in their spare time. The color of his hair was run-your-fingers-through-it gorgeous. Espresso-rich. Just...rich. Everything about him screamed privileged. Polar opposites, then.

Of course she’d blinked first.

“Well, you know there’s also a mountain in Wales—Idris’s Chair. And just look at you there—sitting in a chair.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly. Most people would, at the very least, feign a smile.

Nothing.

“It rhymes!” She tacked on with a hopeful grin, trying her best to keep her nerves at bay.

Nothing.

His lips, though clamped tight, were...sensual. She’d already noticed he curved them up or down to great effect. Disconcerting in a man who, on all other counts, embodied the definition of an alpha male. The perfect amount of six-foot-something. For her, anyway. She liked to be able to look a man in the eye without too much chin tilting. If she were in heels? Perfect. Match. Not that she was on the market for a boyfriend or anything. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to stifle a guffaw. As if.

He looked fit. Athletically so. She would’ve laid money on the fact the hotel swimming pool had seen some well-turned-out laps this morning from the spread of his shoulders filling out what had to be a tailor-made suit. She tipped her chin to the side, finger tapping on her lips, wondering if she could drum up the Arabic word for tailor.

“Here we are! I even found a mug! The butler told me builder’s tea always has to come in a mug. Preferably with a chip, but I’m afraid this one has no chips.”

Robyn lifted her gaze, grateful to see Idris’s assistant arrive, face wreathed in a triumphant smile, carrying a tray laden with tea fixings and a huge pile of scrummy-looking biscuits. Were they...? Oh, wow. Dark chocolate–covered ginger biscuits. In abundance!

“These are my absolute favorite!”

“We’ve done our research. Let us hope,” Idris continued in his lightly accented English, “that you have done yours.”

The words were a dare. One she’d needed no prompting to resist.

“It’s actually been fascinating going over Amira’s notes. It’s kept me up at night.” She saw a flash of something indecipherable brighten Idris’s dark eyes. “In the best possible way.”

Kaisha set the tea tray down between them.

“Heavens! There are enough biscuits here for an army! Is Amira coming with a group of her friends?”

“No. This is just for you,” she answered, her beautiful headscarf swishing gently forward as she leaned to pour a cup of mint-scented tea for Idris and herself from a beautiful china teapot.

“Oh, you are a sweetie. Thank you. It’s Kaisha, isn’t it?” Robyn asked.

“That’s right.”

Robyn repeated the name. “In Japanese it means enterprising, or enterprise, I think.” She found herself looking to Idris for confirmation. He looked like a man who had answers in abundance.

“I thought you said you weren’t a linguist, Miss—”

“Doctor,” Robyn jumped in with a smile. It was her whole life—her job at Paddington’s—and heaven knew she’d far rather be defined by her work than her less edifying home life as a spinster.

“Doctor,” Idris corrected, eyebrows lifting as if he were amused by her insistence upon being called by her rightful title. “For someone who professes to only speak ‘menu’ you seem to know your way around the world’s languages.”

“Oh, yes, well...” She felt her cheeks grow hot. Again. Not a handy time to have a creamy complexion. She twisted her fingers together, hoping they would help her divine the perfect way to confess just how much of a nerd she was. Nothing sprang to mind so she dove into the pool of true confessions. “I’ve studied quite a few sign languages from around the world. It comes in handy as an ENT specialist. Many countries share similar signs for the same word, but it’s always useful to know the word in the spoken language given we have patients joining us from around the world and a lot of them—as many as I can encourage actually—are lip readers. So—” she signed as she spoke “—that is why I had prepared for meeting Amira and not you.”

“I see.” Idris’s dark-as-night eyes widened and she felt her heart sink. Why, oh, why did administration see fit to send her out on these meet-and-greet jobbies? She got too nervous. Talked too much. Way too much. She really would’ve preferred to meet the child—or patient—as the administrators insisted on calling them, on her own.

Patient. The word gave her shivers. The people who came to them at a time when they were sick, or injured and needing a healing touch—they were all children. Children with names and faces, likes and dislikes, and in some cases, the ability to knit the world’s longest scarf.

Her fingers crept across the couch and rubbed a bit of the damp wool between her fingers. The gift was as precious to her as if the children she’d never have had made it for her. An ectopic pregnancy had seen to that dream. So her life was filled with countless “adoptees.”

Children.

“Patient” sounded so clinical and she, along with the rest of the staff at the Castle—as the turreted building had long been nicknamed—wanted the children who came to them to be treated with individual respect and care. With or without the hospital gown, tubes and IVs. Row upon row of medicines, oxygen tanks, tracheal tubes and hearing aids. They were children for whom she tried her very best to make the world—or at least Paddington Children’s Hospital—a better place to be.

If Amira’s records were anything to go by—and Idris was willing to accept the cutting edge treatment she thought her hospital could offer—Robyn knew, with the right team of surgeons, specialists and, annoyingly, funding, she could help his little girl hear for the very first time.

So...it was suck it up and woo the Sheikh, help his daughter and save the hospital in the process.


CHAPTER TWO (#u3fa03665-a218-53ae-8b9c-694386bb1b82)

“LET ME START AGAIN.”

Idris’s growing impatience won out over the desire to return Robyn’s infectious smile. “I wasn’t under the impression we had started anything, much less the interview I was expecting to conduct.”

He knew he was being contrary but this woman unnerved him. Her watchful tigress eyes flicked around the room on a fruitless quest to come up with reasons for his terse response. She wouldn’t find what she sought there. In the immaculate soft furnishings and discreet trappings of the überwealthy. The answer to his coldness stood guard at the surrounds of his heart. Unreachable.

And she would have to do a bit more than smile and catch him off guard to be the one he chose to operate on his daughter.

He was the wall people had to break through to get to Amira. He’d lost one love of his life to the medical “profession.” He’d be damned if he lost another.

He shifted in his chair, well aware Robyn was already unwittingly chinking away at some of his usually impenetrable defenses. This woman—ray of light, more like—was a near antithesis to everything his life had been these last seven years. Where he was wary and overprotective, she was virtually bursting with life, enthusiasm and kindness.

He didn’t think any of the other surgeons had so much as spoken to Kaisha other than to say “tea” or “coffee.” Perhaps a nod of dismissive thanks, but in his book, consideration was everything. Particularly in his role as leader of Da’har. Every decision he made about the small desert kingdom would, ultimately, affect each citizen. As such, he took no decision lightly, altered no laws of the land to benefit one group of people and not another. Life on this small planet was already unjust enough on its own. He’d learned that the hard way. And regrouped out of necessity.

The last thing the people of Da’har needed was a leader drowning in grief at the loss of his wife. Seven years ago his newborn daughter had needed a father with purpose. Direction. So he’d shut the doors on the past and sharply fine-tuned himself to focus on Amira and the role she would one day take on as Sheikha of Da’har and all her people. People whose voices she now longed to hear.

“Where are all the toys?” Robyn asked pointedly.

“I’m sorry?” Idris swung his attention back toward her, not realizing his thoughts had wandered so far away.

“Toys? You did bring your daughter with you, right? And she’s seven so...” He watched her brightly lit eyes scan the immaculate sitting room. “Where does she play?”

“She’s at the zoo with Thana.”

Kaisha’s eyes widened at his words. He knew as well as she, he would normally never tell a virtual stranger his daughter’s whereabouts. Or to call him Idris for that matter. He’d offered no such “common” courtesy to the surgeons he’d met before Robyn. Something about her elicited a sense of...comfort. Ease. She exuded warmth. Albeit, a higgledy-piggledy variety of warmth—but she seemed trustworthy, nonetheless. Which was interesting. Trust wasn’t something he extended to others when it came to his daughter.

“And Thana is her...?” He bristled at Robyn’s open-ended question. He never had to face this sort of questioning in Da’har. Or, generally, anywhere else. His wife’s death during childbirth had been international news. Where their wedding had lit up television broadcasts, her funeral had darkened screens around the globe. It was near impossible to explain how leaden his feet had felt as he’d followed her casket, Amira’s tiny form tightly swaddled in his arms, the pair of them making their way toward the newly dug grave site. He swallowed the sour sensation that never failed to twist through his gut at the memory.

“Her nanny.”

Robyn winced. He could see she remembered now. The myriad expressions her face flashed through and finally landed on was something he recognized too well.

The widowed Sheikh and his deaf daughter...all alone in their grief at the loss of the Sheikha.

So.

He quirked an appraising eyebrow.

She had done her research, after all. Just wasn’t going to any pains to prove it.

“Right!” Robyn pulled open the flap to her satchel and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, which she knocked into an exacting rectangle on the glass coffee table. “I generally prefer to do this sort of initial ‘meet’ with the child. Amira,” she corrected. “While I am relatively certain the type of surgery and treatment I am proposing will suit her case, I also like to make sure it suits her.”

“What do you mean?” None of the other surgeons seemed to care a jot about Amira’s thoughts on the matter. They just wanted to showboat their latest clinical trials...for a price, of course. A large one.

“When someone who is profoundly deaf has hearing restored, it can be quite shocking. Not all deaf people, you may be surprised to learn, want to hear.”

“That is not the case with Amira.”

Robyn gave him a gentle but firm smile before continuing. “It would be preferable to hear that from Amira. Sometimes what a parent desires for their child is different from what the child themselves wants. Tell me, how does she communicate?”

“She mostly reads lips, although—” he raised a hand as Robyn’s own lips parted to interject “—we have our own sign language of sorts. As I’m sure you are aware, there is not yet a regionally recognized sign language between the Arab nations as there is in America or here in the United Kingdom.”

Robyn was nodding along, the tiniest flicker of “been there, done that” betraying the fact he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know already.

“And is her lipreading in Arabic, French and English?”

Hackles rising, Idris checked the volume of his response. “Da’har’s local dialect is what interests her most as the people of my kingdom are the ones she will one day be Sheikha to. Though she speaks a smattering of the others as we travel together regularly. Do bear in mind, Doctor, she is only seven.”

“I have met some very savvy seven-year-olds in my day.” Her chin jutted forward decisively.

Was she mocking him? Amira was the most precious thing in his life. He was hardly going to overwhelm his already serious little girl with an endless stream of tutors and languages when life was innately challenging for her.

When his eyes met hers, he was heartened to see Robyn’s countenance matched her words. She seemed to have...respect...for her patients. He notched up a point for her. A small one. But a point, nonetheless.

“Shame.” Robyn was shaking her head, fanning out some of the papers she’d brought. “It’s much easier to learn multiple languages as a child. The younger, the better, some say. Particularly if it’s not in a scholastic setting.” Her eyes made a derisive skid across the decidedly “grown-up” hotel suite.

“Actually...” Kaisha interjected shyly. “Amira’s English is pretty good and we have been practicing some British Sign Language. She seems to enjoy it.”

“You’ve not told me this!” Idris knew it wasn’t something to be angry about—but why would they keep this from him? A small twinge of concern that his own serious demeanor might be the reason teased at his conscience. Then he dismissed it. He was who he was. A father who put his daughter above everything.

“It was a surprise. For Dr. Kelly.” Kaisha jumbled the words together, then launched herself into some fastidious note-taking to avoid any reaction Idris might have.

“That’s excellent!” Robyn gave a fingertip pitter-patter clap.

“British Sign Language is closer to French—so if she takes that up as well, it sounds as though she’s got some solid grounding in the wonderful world of the polyglot!”

Kaisha beamed with pride.

“Hold on!” Idris unsuccessfully tried to rein in the women’s enthusiasm. “What has all of this got to do with the operation to restore her hearing?”

“Everything,” Robyn replied solidly.

“And why is that?” Idris asked, now feeling sorely tested.

“Because there is always the chance it might not work.”

A thick silence settled between them as he took on board what none of the other surgeons dared suggest. Failure. It was a courageous thing to admit.

“I thought you were one of the best.”

“I am,” Robyn replied without so much as a blink of an eye. “But Amira’s case is a tricky one and the treatment I’m proposing has never been done in exactly this way. Not to mention, I’ve never done it in tandem with gene therapy.”

“Gene therapy?” Idris’s hackles went straight up. It sounded invasive. Dangerously so.

“Don’t worry...don’t worry.” Robyn waved away his concerns as if they were minor. “This is really exciting stuff. During my time in Boston Pediatrics—”

“I thought you were based at Paddington’s.”

Was nothing as it seemed with this woman?

“I am,” she confirmed patiently, then gave a self-effacing laugh. “Unlike most of the human race I like to take my ‘holidays’ at other hospitals. See what my fellow comrades in the Ear, Nose and Throat world are up to.”

“So...you work on holiday.” It came out as a statement.

“I never feel like I’m at work,” she replied, looking shocked he could think otherwise. “I love what I do. So, really, I’m living the dream!”

Idris saw something just then—the tiniest of winces as she spoke of her “perfect life.”

That she was passionate about medicine he had no doubt. But there was something missing, something personal. Which was what she seemed to be making this whole affair by the constant reminders that Amira wasn’t available for “inspection.”

He gave a dissatisfied grunt at the thought, smoothing away an invisible crease on his trousers.

Work and play might be one and the same for Robyn, but he had yet to get a handle on what it was she was actually going to do for his daughter apart from test her emotional elasticity. What was she expecting? A picket fence lifestyle for a girl who had lost her mother at birth and would one day rule a nation, all the while coping with profound deafness?

If she could handle that with the grace and charm she exhibited on a daily basis, Amira would certainly be able to handle...

Ah...

Idris put two and two together, suddenly seeing the sense behind everything Robyn—Dr. Kelly—was saying. One devastating loss was big enough. Something she would have to live with forever. The second? Her dream of being able to hear the voices of the people she would one day serve as leader?

He glanced at his watch, wondering how long it would take to bring Amira back from the zoo. Then again, he still hadn’t heard Robyn’s surgical plans. He was hardly going to give her hope before he’d heard Dr. Sunshine’s proposal.

“Okay, Idris—Your Highness. This is the part for focusing.” Robyn’s entire body looked as though it were ready to spring from the sofa as she spoke. “I am particularly excited about the different components of this surgery. I think Amira—when I eventually meet her—will be pretty interested to learn she’ll be one of the first children to receive a 3-D printout of not one but two inner ear bones. The stapes or stirrup, and the incus—or anvil as it is commonly known. I’m guessing you’re relatively au fait with this terminology, right?” She didn’t pause for an answer, just a quick glance in his direction as she pushed a couple of maps of an ear in his direction highlighting the work she proposed to do. Then, from her seemingly bottomless pit of a satchel, she pulled out a large model of an ear.

“This was more for Amira’s sake, but as she’s not here, you’ll do.”

“How very kind,” Idris answered dryly. Whether or not Robyn took any notice of his tone was beyond him as she was utterly engrossed in taking apart the pieces of the gigantic model to reveal a beautiful side view of the intricately constructed organ.

“As she was born prematurely, it looks as though a couple of Amira’s middle ear bones had some trouble developing completely, leading to the conductive hearing loss and—for whatever reason, it could be her diet, could be all the other factors a preemie has to go through—her body hasn’t quite caught up with the development she should have gone through by this point. It’s also apparent that the sensory hairs in her ear were damaged at some point. It could have been in the gestational period, but I think it is more likely it was during the labor. Sometimes the use of medicines that are beneficial to the mother can affect the baby—”

“Stop there. I’ve heard enough.”

Idris clenched his teeth, feeling the telltale twitch in his jaw as he did. No one had so much as dared to suggest Amira’s hearing loss had been caused by the medical treatment his wife had received. He’d never hold his wife’s fight for survival accountable for his daughter’s condition. At first he’d thought it had been punishment for being too happy. A beautiful wife, a nation who adored the pair of them, a child on the way... The lightning strikes of how cruel life could actually be had been blunt and unforgiving.

Robyn leaned forward and reached out a hand, taking one of Idris’s in her own. His instinct was to yank his hand away. It had been years since he’d known the comforting touch of a woman. Years since he’d thought such a thing would ever be possible after he’d lost his beloved wife. If Robyn noticed, nothing in her expression betrayed the fact.

“This is a big step,” she began, the warmth of her fingers beginning to mesh with his own. “For you and your daughter. I would rather call the entire thing off if you feel it’s too iffy. There is always the option of cochlear implants or bone conducting hearing aids. They do offer excellent opportunities for many hearing-impaired children, but given the damage to Amira’s sensory hairs, I believe they’ll offer minimal aid in your daughter’s case. If you like I can show you the details for the other surgeries.”

“No need.” Idris extracted his hand from hers and stood, suddenly impatient to get things under way. His own fears, his need to control the situation, would have to be controlled. For Amira’s sake. Putting all of his faith in a surgeon for his daughter’s well-being terrified him, but something about Robyn told him she would do everything in her power to do what she could for Amira.

“We will do the surgery, as you prescribed, but on one condition.”

“Oh! I...uh...” She threw a look over each shoulder as if expecting the condition to appear from behind the sofa.

Idris bit back a smile. She was clearly a doctor, through and through. A negotiator? Not so much. Children seemed to be the medium through which she communicated with the rest of the world. Adults, less comfortable terrain. Or was it just him that made her squirm? A flash of sexual prowess shot through him. Fleeting—powerful enough to leave aftershocks.

“What exactly is this condition?” Robyn shot him a wary look when a giraffe didn’t pop up behind her. “I don’t dance, sing or play poker if any of those are your poison.”

“You will come to Da’har.”

Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth popped into a pretty O as she took on board his proposal. She wanted him out of his comfort zone...and it looked as though his request meant she would have to leave hers.

“Why?”

“To spend time with Amira, of course. As you requested,” he couldn’t resist adding.

Robyn jumped to her feet, raising her hands in protest.

“There’s no need for me to leave the hallowed shores of Blighty to do my best in surgery.” Her eyes zigzagged between him and Kaisha as if trying to divine a hidden meaning in the request. Demand? Even he wasn’t sure. What he did know was if he was going to acquiesce to her demands she’d better be prepared to meet him halfway. Putting his daughter’s future in the hands of virtual stranger? Not an option.

“When we’re in Da’har—”

“Oh, my goodness me! Let’s not count our camels before they hatch!” Robyn laughed nervously, faltered, regrouped, then put on what he suspected was a self-taught stern expression as she wagged a finger at him. “I don’t exactly remember saying I would come along. I am the head of surgery at a very busy hospital that—”

“Is under threat of closure and relocation outside of London? Riverside, I believe the new site is called?” he finished coolly.

He was no game player, but if Paddington Children’s Hospital was on the brink of an unwanted closure, he had the means to change that. His pockets were deep. Very deep. But his daughter’s welfare came first. The thought of losing Amira under any circumstances chilled him to his very marrow. Something just as deep-seated told him Robyn was the woman to perform Amira’s surgery, but only after a few more boxes had been ticked. “You will come to Da’har to allay my concerns—”

“Concerns?”

A piercing shot of anger coursed through Idris that she could even dare to suggest he would feel otherwise.

“Yes. Concerns. Shall I spell it out for you? A father’s concerns. Surely, Dr. Kelly, you are not unfamiliar with the love a parent has for a child?”

Robyn went deathly still. She blinked, hiding behind her eyelids a look of pure, unadulterated grief. When she opened them again, her eyes bore little of the light they’d shone with earlier and Idris knew he was at fault for unearthing a deep sorrow. A hollow victory if ever there was one.

“I will have to talk to the board,” she said. “Ensure appropriate replacements can be made...”

“Good.” He gave a curt nod, his tone back to its usual brusque efficiency. It wasn’t as if he could comfort her. Pull her into his arms and tell her whatever it was that had thrown a shadow over her sunlit eyes would one day be better. He was proof that time was not a healer of all wounds.

“Right. Very well, then. When shall we book your flight? Or, if you care to join us, we will be taking the jet back. Is it tomorrow afternoon, Kaisha? Amira’s booked in to see a premiere of some sort tonight—a musical—otherwise we’d be off today.”

* * *

“You’re going to see Princesses and Frogs?” Robyn shoved her dark thoughts away, grateful for the distraction. The highly anticipated musical had been sold out for months and months. She’d been hoping to bring some of her friends from the hospital...well, patients, but they always ended up finding a way into her heart no matter how “doctory” she tried to be.

“Yes. Very nice seats, I’m led to believe. Would you care to join us?”

Robyn barked out an ungainly laugh. “I doubt you’d be able to get extra tickets at this point.”

“It won’t be a problem. We always book out the Royal Dress Circle.”

She cringed as Idris caught her raised eyebrows, even more embarrassed at her reaction to the show of wealth when he finished, “In case Amira would like to bring along a friend or two. As you speak British Sign Language, you could be useful if she needs some additional interpreting along the way. Is there anyone else you’d like to invite along?” She felt his eyes traveling down to her bare ring finger and protectively covered her left hand with her right.

She fidgeted for a minute under his cool gaze, then crossed her arms, in a B-grade show of giving his question a few moments’ consideration. Idris didn’t need to know she was a dedicated singleton. One whose daily torture and pleasure it was to enter Paddington’s and spend day after day surrounded by children knowing she would never have one of her own. Lacerating her heart by getting close to yet another young patient was always a risk. One she’d have to take if it meant saving the hospital that had saved her in her darkest days. Her hands, as they always did, crept down to protect the area where she would have carried a child if things had gone differently. If life had been kind. She blinked. Kind. Idris hadn’t known much kindness at the hands of Mother Nature, either.

“It would be great if I could come along...to meet Amira.” Her brow crinkled as she continued. “In the light of which, I really don’t think it’s necessary to take up your time and resources to go to Da’har.”

“Nonsense. Expense is the least of my problems.” Idris tutted, crossing to the sofa where Robyn was sitting. She watched, wordlessly, as he picked up the crumpled ball that was her raincoat and shook it out. The scarf one of “her” kids had given her fell to the ground. When she bent to pick it up, she conked heads, rather impressively, with Idris.

They rose simultaneously, hands clamped on foreheads. As comedy moments went...this was up there. Except neither of them were laughing.

His eyes...those beautiful near black eyes of his held on to hers as if they were speaking to each other. A silent conversation winging its way, effortlessly, to her very core where she was feeling rather heated and a little bit...giddy.

Da’har was meant to be nice this time of year.

Idris regrouped more quickly than Robyn and all she could do was watch his lips as he spoke.

“If you need a few days to rearrange your schedule...” She watched as his Adam’s apple dipped and resurfaced. Was he feeling it, too? “I’m quite sure the hospital administration will be...flexible...about your hospital duties when they understand the complexities surrounding your upcoming surgery.”

“It’s not the surgery I’m worried about.” Her fingers flew to cover her lips. Gulp. She was really going to have to curtail her out-loud voice.

“Dr. Kelly, I’m not certain how much your administrative team has told you about me, but in order for this surgery to go ahead I’m afraid there are a few hurdles to leap. My daughter is my utmost priority and as much as you want to understand Amira, I need to understand you.”

“Oh, no, no. I don’t go under the microscope.” Not a chance. No one—no matter how sexy, powerful and unnervingly sensual they were—no one opened up her private life for inspection. Case. Closed. She dug her trainers into the thick carpet and gave a shake of the head, wishing she’d commandeered her wild spray of curls into some sort of obedience. “Nonnegotiable.”

“My daughter, my rule book.”

“Ha! Wow.” Despite her best efforts to stem her response, she snorted. “Someone’s a little used to getting what he wants.”

He quirked an eyebrow in response; a ribbon of heat flickered through her belly as she watched his lips part to respond to her, a full octave lower than usual.

“And someone’s going to have to learn to be a bit more flexible to get what she wants.”

Robyn could’ve sworn she saw the hint of a smile on his lips before he continued briskly. “You will, of course, need to meet the team you will work with for the surgery in Da’har before I allow it—”

“Allow it?” Sorry, pal. Sheikh or no sheikh, she and she alone decided whether or not the surgery was green-lit.

“Yes. Allow it,” Idris replied, entirely unaffected by her interior monologue. “I make decisions about Amira and no one else. It’s the job of a parent to protect, is it not?”

Robyn bit down hard enough on the inside of her cheek to draw blood as he continued. She’d never be a parent and, as such, was denied any right of reply. This time her silence drew venom.

* * *

“How else do you recommend I look after my daughter’s welfare?” Idris snapped. He would move heaven and earth for Amira. Retaining control of her medical treatment was paramount. If he had control, he could ensure nothing would happen to her. Loss—the aching, hollowed-out-heart kind of grief he had felt when his wife had died—was not something he would ever go through again. He pressed his lips tightly together as Robyn began, again, to fight her corner.

“By trusting me and the other physicians at Paddington’s to do our very best—as we always do,” she replied, only just managing to keep the bite out of her own voice. Kaisha, Idris noticed, was inching her way out of the room.

“Then you will do your very best in Da’har.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” Robyn’s index finger went into overdrive. “Not for the surgery. That will happen here.” She pointed in the general direction of Paddington’s, wagging her finger as if that were the decision maker. “It’s Paddington’s world-class facilities...or nowhere.”

The air crackled between them and for just a moment Idris saw a strength in her he doubted few people were privy to. A confidence in her abilities—under her terms—to which he was going to have to acquiesce.

Interesting.

What was it that made Robyn tick? Gave her the strength to disagree with him when everyone else was busy falling over themselves to appease. What would it be like to share the responsibility of Amira’s care with someone he trusted? The thought instantly brought him back to his senses. He had no one. Amira’s care was his and his alone.

“I can get you anything or anyone you like to work with in Da’har. What does it matter where the surgery takes place?”

“Everything!”

They both froze. Idris felt his features recompose themselves into the unreadable mask he’d worn for so long while the tiniest of twitches on Robyn’s face betrayed a fight against the unwelcome sting of tears. His chest tightened. Yes, he wanted control—but not on these terms.

“Isn’t a surgical theater the same anywhere?”

Robyn shook her head, clearly not yet trusting herself to speak.

“My daughter’s welfare is paramount. She is happiest in Da’har.”

“My patient’s welfare is paramount and, as such, I am happiest operating at Paddington’s.”

“Tell me, what’s so special about it?”

* * *

His softer tone suggested a change of tack. One Robyn felt herself drawn to. Even so, she didn’t share. Not even her colleagues knew about the ectopic pregnancy that had ended her dreams of having a family of her own. All they knew was that Robyn poured her heart and soul into Paddington’s and was as much a part of the place as the very bricks and mortar.

“Spend time in Da’har with us.” A smile—one he should use more frequently—accompanied Idris’s words. “If you meet my terms, I will meet yours.”

“You mean the operation will be at Paddington’s?”

“So long as you join us in Da’har. The sooner, the better.”

A trip to Da’har.

Her lungs strained against the thought. Even so...something told her this was a throw-caution-to-the-winds moment. It was not like she was facing a life or death decision. What harm could seeing a children’s musical and a couple of days in Da’har do in the greater scheme of things apart from scare her witless by yanking her straight out of her comfort zone?

So she’d have a handful of days not knowing if she was coming or going. Days that could change the face of things at Paddington’s, making every moment of scrutinizing looks from the desert kingdom’s leader worth it.

Idris’s eyes bore down on her as he waited for an answer, a shift of his jawline betraying his impatience.

Her tummy flipped.

And...breathe.

See? Survived the first step.

Robyn gave a quick nod and stuck out her hand in as businesslike a fashion as she could muster. “I trust there will be chocolate-covered ginger biscuits where we’re going?”

Maybe not quite as grown-up as she’d been aiming for.

“More than enough.” Idris’s voice deepened as he mirrored her nod, engulfing her hand in both of his as he did. Why hadn’t she noticed how large his hands were before? And how strong. And gentle enough in their strength to make her feel...delicate.

Crikey. If only she could take a pile of those ginger biscuits back with her and curl up in a corner until every last crumb of them had disappeared. A sugar high might be the only way she’d have the strength to go through with this harebrained scheme.

“Kaisha,” Idris called over his shoulder, hands still encasing hers as if they were precious jewels, “can we get the rest of Dr. Kelly’s biscuits put in a basket or something so that she can bring them back to the hospital. To share.” He arched an eyebrow at her, all but proving he’d read her mind.

* * *

A few moments later, a flame-faced Robyn was jabbing at the lift buttons, a wicker basket swinging from her arm laden with enough ginger biscuits to feed an army.

C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Where was the elite and exclusive service when you needed it? She could feel the Sheikh’s bodyguards train their eyes on her, hoping they read nothing into the jiggling she could feel beginning as a hit of nerves overtook her entire upper body.

He’d seen into her soul.

How was that even possible? Less than an hour with Idris—Sheikh Idris Al Khalil. Her polar opposite if ever there was one, and yet...

She shot a glance over her shoulder again and grimaced. If the muscle men evaporated she could start banging her head against the controls hoping to knock some sense into herself at the same time. What on earth was she doing? Agreeing to up stakes and hang out in a desert kingdom with the cool-as-a-cucumber mind reader? Her private life was exactly that and she didn’t know how many more X-ray vision looks she could deflect.

A low groan filled the space around her. A droning moan of despair. Oh, wait. She was making that sound. Oops.

She turned around and flashed the bodyguards a quick smile, which grew brighter when she heard the lift ping and the doors click-clack open.

The sooner she could get back into the comforting surrounds of Paddington’s, the better.


CHAPTER THREE (#u3fa03665-a218-53ae-8b9c-694386bb1b82)

“HE SAID WHAT EXACTLY?”

Robyn scanned the sea of expectant expressions, wishing she weren’t the center of attention. Limelight and Robyn were not a good combination. But these people were her friends as well as her colleagues. The surgeons and doctors who were pouring their hearts, minds and endless energies into keeping the doors of Paddington Children’s Hospital open.

“Well, Dominic, um...” Why did they send me? “Biscuit, anyone?” She pushed the basket of sweets to the middle of the surgical ward’s central desk and forced on what she hoped was a winning smile.

“Claire said you said he said you’d have to go to Da’har.”

“Hold on a minute, Alistair. You know how I feel about riding the gossip train.” She tsked, then gulped as the sea of expectant faces grew more impatient.

“For heaven’s sake, Robyn! I’m not engaging in idle gossip, I’m trying to learn if there is even the smallest sliver of a chance we can save Paddington’s from this ridiculous move out to Riverside!”

“You know, you have a lovely voice, Alistair. Is that what drew you to him, Claire? The voice?” The more the group stared at her, the more tongue-tied she became. “Can’t I just send out a memo or something?”

Rosie Hobbes—still glowing from her recent engagement to Dr. Marchetti—turned her flame-haired bob and made another stab at extracting information from Robyn. “You don’t need to give us a blow-by-blow account of what happened with His Excellency, but the key details would be useful.”

“You mean Idris?” Robyn crinkled her nose. Rosie’s fiancé was, after all, a duke and no one went around calling him His Excellency.

A general “ooh” that said, Look who’s on first-name terms with the Sheikh, circled Robyn like an ever-tightening snare.

“Just because most of you lot got swept away with spring fever and are all loved up doesn’t mean I can’t carry on with a professional relationship!” She could’ve added in a bit about the pregnancy chair having done far too much work this year, but no need to turn herself into a human voodoo doll. Wide eyes continued to stare expectantly. Provocatively. Annoyingly.

“It’s August. Cupid’s month off. I have it on good authority.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Alistair teased, giving his fiancée, Claire, a little nuzzle as he did.

It wasn’t as if Idris was all gorgeous and irresistibly off-limits or anything.

“If you’re on a first-name basis,” Rosie chimed in, “he’s obviously keen for you to do the surgery.”

“He is,” she conceded. “But when I told him I would only do the surgery here at the Castle, Idris said he would only agree if I went to Da’har.”

His name felt both foreign and familiar when she spoke it. A sweetness upon her tongue. Not a sensation to get used to. “Besides, a first-name basis doesn’t mean I have to fly out and see his magical desert kingdom by moonlight, okay?”

Maybe Alistair had a point.

“Robyn!” Rosie persisted. “You don’t want to move out to the business park of so-called ‘Riverside’ any more than the rest of us do. Paddington’s must stay open. We just want to know if there’s anything we can do to help you.”

Apart from dropping the playground teasing about Idris, nothing sprang to mind. This was solidly on her shoulders. Unfortunately.

“No, not really. I should probably speak with Victoria about his proposal.”

“Your chic Sheikh has asked you to marry him?” Matthew teased, receiving a jab in the ribs from Claire as Robyn’s mouth screwed up into an “eww” face.

“Is it possible that he’s not a chic sheikh?” Rosie asked with false innocence.

“Or that he’s not really a sheikh?” Victoria posited, another biscuit disappearing from the ever-diminishing pile.

“Maybe the chic Sheikh already has five wives and our Robyn really deserves to be wife number one.”

There was a collective nod of heads.

“Get your heads out of the registry office! The lot of you!”

Too cranky.

She opened her mouth to fix the mood-change grenade she’d tossed into the midst of the group, gaped like a fish for a moment, then dove in. “He obviously loved his late wife very much and from his...less than warm demeanor, I can happily inform you he will be bending his knee and asking me to marry him in—oh, just about never.” She grabbed a biscuit and ran her finger along the edge before looking up at her peers. “And don’t look so surprised!”

Marriage had been on the cards once, but after her epic fail in the baby-making department? Never again. She needed to contain the situation. Set them straight.

“Don’t make fun of my chic Sheikh.”

The eyes trained on her collectively widened.

That probably wasn’t the best way to handle it, Robyn.

“Gah!” Robyn cried, zigzagging her index finger around the group with her stern expression on full tilt. “All of you are very, very silly.”

And she would miss them heart and soul if the hospital were to close. Which only meant one thing.

She’d need to buy a suitcase.

She shushed their teasings and proddings, then put on her I’m-the-head-of-department face.

“Idris wants me to go to Da’har for a few days to get to know his daughter better.” She looked around the group to garner support that she shouldn’t leave Paddington’s.

“So go!” Dominic urged. “I’m pretty certain I speak for Victoria when I say this. If it’ll help Paddington’s—go.”

“Dominic,” she pleaded, “this is your bag, not mine. I’m bound to make an idiot out of myself or put my foot in it.”

“Is not going worth compromising the Castle’s future?” Alistair’s question hushed the group collectively.

“Not fair! You all know how much this place means to me.” Paddington’s was her heartbeat. Her lifesaver. The job offer to work here had come the same week she’d had her insides removed and her relationship had imploded. It had literally pulled her out of the dark and into a new world of possibility. Of hope that, even though she would never be a mother, she could dedicate her life to helping other women’s children survive. Thirteen years later she was still here—but soon Paddington’s might not be.

Her eyes moved from surgeon to doctor to paramedic to nurse. Each of them an unwitting role-player in her fight to survive her darkest days. She brightened as an idea struck. “Why don’t you go to Da’har, Dominic? I already said I’d go to the theater with him. I’ll meet Amira there. I’m sure we’ll hit it off just fine and then, once the show’s over, I’ll let His Excellency know it’ll be you and not me who’ll be joining him in Da’har.”

“What?” Rebecca barked through a mouthful of ginger biscuit. “You’re going on a sheikh date?”

“Yeah, right. Just like the genie is going to pop out of the bottle and make all my wishes come true when I—uh—rub it.”

“Hold on a minute.” Dominic raised his hand before giving Robyn’s shoulder a gentle rub. “As fun as all of this is, Robyn, you are the Castle’s head of surgery, not to mention the doctor who would be performing Amira’s treatment. You should not only be going to the theater on your sheikh date, but you should be preparing yourself to eat dates with the Sheikh from afar in Da’har.”

“I thought you said we were done rhyming.” Robyn grabbed a biscuit and took a defiant chomp. Hopefully it would help mask the jitters launching a Mach-force invasion on her nervous system.

“We are. And you are done prevaricating. Get out the Factor Fifty, my friend. You’re going to Da’har.” Dominic grinned.

She widened her eyes to appeal to her fellow surgeons. “Being in the operating theater? Piece of cake. I’ve already thought of an amazing team, and on the cab ride back I checked with one of the specialists at Boston, and he’s already looking into flights. It would take his research global. The whole publicity thing? That’s your terrain, Dom. You’re the one who can get it all over TV.”

“And you’re the one who can do the surgery that will get Paddington’s the right kind of press. But only if you go to Da’har and win over the Sheikh!” He finished with a persuasive smile all the while fixing her with his bright blue eyes, and for just a moment she could see why Victoria had fallen for him. Not that she thought of anyone, ever, in that way anymore. Except that a certain pair of inky black eyes flashed into her mental cinema. She blinked them away, forcing herself to focus on the words coming out of Dominic’s mouth.

“We can clear your schedule from tomorrow—” He raised a hand to stop Robyn from interjecting, proving just how right she had been to put him at the helm of the PR campaign to save the hospital from closure. He flopped an arm around her shoulders as she squirmed beneath the imploring gazes of her colleagues.

She was great with children and in surgery. Being the object of everyone’s undivided attention was—

“Oops—easy there, Ryan!” She lurched out from underneath Dominic’s arm to steady the young boy as he tried out his new crutches along the hospital corridors. “Big step up from the wheelchair, eh?”

Ryan beamed up at her, too focused on staying upright to answer back. The seven-year-old had come such a long way from when he’d first been brought in after the horrible primary school fire. He was one of dozens of children now recovering in leaps and bounds because of the help they received here at Paddington’s. Help they might not be able to get if she didn’t get over herself and board a plane to a place she’d barely heard of let alone was familiar with.

She turned back to the cluster of colleagues awaiting her response. “Fine.” She shook her head with a sigh and a halfhearted smile. “You win. I’ll go.”

A smattering of applause followed her as she grabbed another biscuit and offered Ryan gentle encouragement as he made his way back along the corridor to his room. If he could fight the odds, so could she.

* * *

Idris tapped his foot impatiently. Where was she? Kaisha, at his request, had rung the hospital to confirm Robyn was coming and had given her the times.

“You said we’d be in the royal circle, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I made it clear she was to tell security she was to be allowed through to our section.”

As if she’d need it.

“You said seven-thirty, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Three times,” Kaisha replied neutrally, fingers skidding along her tablet to check the confirmation email that had accompanied the phone call.

It was at moments like this that Idris was a little surprised Kaisha didn’t hand in her notice or tell him to put a sock in it. He was hardly a bundle of laughs at the best of times and this was about the tenth time today he’d been insufferable. Not that he was keeping track or anything; it was just...there’d been a shift today. A shift in the currents of his life, as if things were changing course. He had little doubt what shape the change had come in—blond hair, amber eyes...

Change or no, Kaisha shouldn’t be the one to take his discord in the neck.

He signaled for her to put her tablet away.

“Stop. Don’t worry. The curtain goes up in a minute or two—just...”

Just what? Go out into the whole of London and find her? Bring the production to a halt while they waited? One meeting and she’d already threaded herself into his psyche—a single gold thread in a tapestry of too much unhappiness.

He cleared his throat and reenergized his tapping. Golden presence or otherwise, the woman was late. He wasn’t unaware the fault could be his own. It was very possible he’d been too harsh. Shaping his own fears into too acute a display of anger.

He leaned across to Amira and dropped a kiss on top of her curtain of ebony hair as she diligently worked her way through the program, her index finger distractedly fiddling with a loose tooth. He fought the urge to tell her to leave it be. His parents had allowed him free rein to be a child and he owed it to his daughter to do the same. She would bear full responsibility for ruling Da’har one day. For now? She could worry about her loose tooth.

Amira turned to him and pressed one of her small hands onto his knee, mouthing and signing, “Daddy! You’re jiggling the entire balcony!”

“I’m sorry, darling. Just excited for the princesses. Aren’t you?”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/annie-o-neil/healing-the-sheikh-s-heart/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.