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The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum
Meredith Webber


Sparks fly hotter than the desert sun!Expectant surrogate mum Dr Liz Jones is used to putting others first – that’s why she’s come to Sheikh Khalifa’s kingdom to advise on his new hospital. Liz feels giddy every time she’s around the handsome surgeon.It’s probably just hormones – but something about their chemistry tells her they’re meant to be together…










Praise for Meredith Webber:

‘Medical™ Romance favourite Meredith Webber

has penned a spellbinding and moving tale

set under the hot desert sun!’

—Cataromance on

THE DESERT PRINCE’S CONVENIENT BRIDE

‘Medical


Romance favourite Meredith Webber has written an outstanding romantic tale that I devoured in a single sitting: moving, engrossing, romantic and absolutely unputdownable! Ms Webber peppers her story with plenty of drama, emotion and passion, and she will keep her readers entranced until the final page.’

—Cataromance on

A PREGNANT NURSE’S CHRISTMAS WISH

‘Meredith Webber does a beautiful job

as she crafts one of the most unique romances I’ve

read in a while. Reading a tale by Meredith Webber is

always a pleasure, and

THE HEART SURGEON’S BABY SURPRISE

is no exception!’

—Book Illuminations on THE HEART SURGEON’S BABY SURPRISE


‘Beautiful,’ she said.

‘But not as beautiful as you,’ he murmured, taking the beaker and draining the last drops. Then, with his lips still wet, he kissed her.

Liz was sure she didn’t mean to kiss him back. She’d decided very firmly that kissing was off-limits where this man was concerned. Probably, in her condition, where any man was concerned! But she was definitely kissing him back—leaning into him, tasting the water on his lips, tasting him, wanting more while her head rambled on about not kissing men.

There was nothing simple about this kiss. If anything it was the most complex kiss Liz had ever experienced, for it seemed to be saying things as well as asking things, and she didn’t understand any of it—except the need to keep on kissing Khalifa-whoever, His Highness of Al Tinine …




About the Author


MEREDITH WEBBER says of herself, ‘Once I read an article which suggested that Mills and Boon were looking for new Medical™ Romance authors. I had one of those “I can do that” moments, and gave it a try. What began as a challenge has become an obsession—though I do temper the “butt on seat” career of writing with dirty but healthy outdoor pursuits, fossicking through the Australian Outback in search of gold or opals. Having had some success in all of these endeavours, I now consider I’ve found the perfect lifestyle.’

Recent titles by Meredith Webber:

NEW DOC IN TOWN

ORPHAN UNDER THE CHRISTMAS TREE

MELTING THE ARGENTINE DOCTOR’S HEART

TAMING DR TEMPEST

SHEIKH, CHILDREN’S DOCTOR … HUSBAND



These books are also available in eBook format from www.millsandboon.co.uk


The Sheikh and The Surrogate Mum

Meredith Webber
















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




CHAPTER ONE


‘JUST because some bloke with more money than sense has bought the place, we don’t need to go into a full-scale meltdown. He’s bought the hospital, not our bodies and souls. We have to—’

Dr Elizabeth Jones was addressing her slightly panicked night shift staff outside the special care neonatal unit of Giles Hospital when a deep, slightly accented voice interrupted her.

‘This word “bloke”? It means?’

She turned to face the source of the voice and her heart thudded to a halt, flopped around a bit and then went into a gallop rhythm she couldn’t recall ever having felt before.

He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, or even astoundingly good looking—he was just so, well, very male!

Arrogantly male!

His bearing, the slight tilt of his head, the imperious look in his near-black eyes, all shouted leader of the pack.

‘Oh! Um—it’s actually nothing. Aussie slang, you know—means a man …’

The words faltered out in dribs and drabs, her brain too busy cataloguing the stranger’s attributes to construct sensible sentences.

Smooth olive skin, the slightest, neatest of clipped beards and moustache emphasising a straight nose and a strong jaw, not to mention framing lips like—well, she couldn’t think how to describe the lips, although the words ‘eminently kissable’ had sneaked into her head.

He wore a dark suit, though the way he wore it—or maybe it was the suit itself—made her wonder if she’d ever really seen a man in a suit before.

‘I see!’ the lips she’d noticed before the suit mused. ‘So the “bloke” who bought the hospital has more money than sense?’

It was the accent making her toes curl in her strappy sandals and sending feathery touches up and down her spine.

It had to be!

‘It was a stupid thing to say,’ Liz added, back in control. Almost. ‘It’s just that this particular hospital is hardly a money-making concern because part of the original trust that set it up ensures we treat a percentage of non-paying patients, although—’

She stopped before she insulted the man further—if this was the man with more money than sense—by assuming he’d change that rule. In fact, from the day the staff had learned the hospital was on the market they had all assumed it would be changed. After all, who in their right mind would invest in a business that ran at a loss?

Who would invest in a business that ran at a loss? Khalifa could see the words she didn’t say flashing across her face.

An interesting face—arresting. Though maybe it was nothing more than the black-framed glasses that made it that way. What woman wore glasses with heavy black plastic frames these days? They did emphasise her clear creamy complexion but certainly didn’t match her hair, ruthlessly restrained in a tidy knot behind her head, yet still revealing more than a hint of deep red in the darkness of it.

Intriguing, but he was here on business.

‘I am the bloke you speak of, but I do not intend to make money from the hospital,’ he assured her and the small group of staff who’d been her audience when he’d approached. ‘I will continue to run it according to the original charter, but I hope to be able to bring some of the equipment up to date, and perhaps employ more staff.’

He paused. He’d intended outlining his plan to a meeting of the heads of the different departments, and had walked down to look again at the special care unit because it was his main interest. But now he was here, perhaps a less formal approach would be better.

Or did he want to spend more time studying the woman with the black glasses?

‘My name is Sheikh Khalifa bin Saif al Zahn. Just Khalifa will suffice. I have bought the hospital in the hope that you, the staff, can help me and that I can, perhaps, offer those of you who wish to take part an interesting and hopefully enjoyable experience.’

The blank looks on the faces of the small group told him his explanation hadn’t worked.

‘I have built a new hospital in my homeland—an island state called Al Tinine—and it is operating well. My next wish is to set up a special care neonatal unit like this one. I am hoping to bring staff from my hospital to work here to gain an insight into how you work, and I would like to think some of the staff at this hospital would enjoy working for short periods in my country.’

He was certain this further explanation had been perfectly clear—perhaps the blank looks were caused by surprise.

Then the woman—he knew from photos she was Dr Elizabeth Jones, the one he wanted most of all—although in the photos she hadn’t had the ghastly glasses and hadn’t looked quite so—attractive?—stepped forward, knocking a pile of papers from the top of a filing cabinet and muttering under her breath before holding out her hand. One of the other women began gathering the papers, tapping them into a neat pile.

‘How do you do, Dr Khalifa?’ Dr Jones said formally, adding her name. ‘Forgive us for reacting like dumbstruck idiots, but it isn’t often anyone takes notice of our small hospital, let alone wanders in and offers us a chance to visit other countries. As for new equipment, we should be dancing with glee and cheering wildly. We make do with what we have and our success rate here in the special care unit in particular is first class, but the money from the trust that set up the hospital has been running out for some years.’

Khalifa heard the words but his brain had stopped working.

The woman he wanted, now she’d stepped out from behind the filing cabinet on which she’d been leaning, was undoubtedly pregnant. Not a huge bump, but pregnant enough to notice.

The shadow of pain, the fiercer thrust of guilt that chased him through each day had registered the bump immediately.

Dr Elizabeth Jones was as pregnant as Zara had been the last time he’d seen her …

Realising he’d dropped the conversational ball, Dr Jones spoke again.

‘It sounds a wonderful opportunity for our staff to travel to your country and I’m sure we’d be very happy to welcome staff from your hospital, to learn from them as well as show them how we do things.’

There was a slight frown creasing the creamy skin, as if she wasn’t absolutely certain of the truth of her words, but before he could decide, or even thank her for her kindness, a faint bell sounded and the group of women broke away immediately.

‘Excuse me,’ the doctor said. ‘That was an end-of-shift meeting we were having. The new shift is on duty and I’m needed.’

She whisked away from the makeshift office—was one small desk and the filing cabinet in this alcove off the hall all they had?—and entered the glass-walled room where two lines of cribs held tiny babies. Two women—nurses, he assumed—in black and white patterned smocks leant over one of the cribs, straightening as Dr Jones joined them. Uncertain as to the isolation status of the ward, he remained outside, watching through the glass as she bent over the crib, touching the infant’s cheek with one finger while reading the monitor beside it.

One of the nurses had wheeled a small trolley laden with drugs and equipment to the side of the crib but in the end Dr Jones straightened and shook her head, writing something on the chart at the end of the crib and stroking the baby’s cheek, smiling down at the tiny being, before leaving the unit.

‘You’re still here!’

She spoke abruptly, obviously distracted by whatever it was that had summoned her to the baby’s crib, then she proved his guess correct by adding, ‘She has a little periodic apnoea but I don’t want to put her back on CPAP.’

‘Has she just come off it?’ he asked, and the woman frowned at him.

‘You understood that? I was really thinking out loud. Very rude, but I suppose if you’ve built one hospital and bought another, you probably do know a few things about medicine.’

‘I know a few,’ he said. ‘Enough to get me through my medical degree and a follow-up in surgery.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, flashing a smile that almost hid a flush of embarrassment in her cheeks. ‘It’s just that health care seems to have become big business these days and the business owners don’t necessarily know anything about medicine. But I’m holding you up. You’ll want to see the rest of the place, and talk to staff in other departments, won’t you?’

‘Not right now,’ he began, uncertain now that the woman’s pregnancy had thrown his plans into disarray. ‘You see, I’m particularly interested in this special care unit because I had hoped to persuade you to come to Al Tinine to set one up. I have heard and read so many good things about the work you do here, running a small unit that offers premature babies surprisingly successful outcomes on a limited budget.’

She studied him, her head tilted slightly to one side, and he wondered what she was seeing.

A foreigner in an expensive suit?

A bloke with more money than sense?

Guilty on both counts!

‘So are you looking for something similar in size? Will there be limitations on the budget of the unit you wish to set up?’

Shocked by the assumption, he rushed into speech.

‘Of course not—that wasn’t what I meant at all. Naturally, we won’t be looking at gold-plated cribs, but I would want you to have the very best equipment, and appropriate staffing levels, whatever you deemed necessary for the best possible outcomes for premature infants born in the southern part of my country.’

She smiled again—not much of a smile but enough to light a spark in the wide blue eyes she hid behind the chunky glasses.

‘Gold plate would probably be toxic anyway,’ she said, then the smile slid away and the little crease of a frown returned. ‘My next question would be, are you setting it up as a working, effective unit that will give preemie babies the very best chance of leading normal lives later on, or are you putting it in because you think hospitals should have one?’

The question shocked him even more than the previous assumption had, although would he have considered it if not for Zara’s and the baby’s deaths?

That thought angered him.

‘Are you always this blunt?’ he demanded, scowling at her now. ‘I expect you to set up a properly organised special care neonatal unit with some facilities for infants who would, in a larger hospital, go into a neonatal intensive care unit. I understand you have such facilities in your unit here at Giles, which is one of the reasons I chose this hospital.’

No need to tell her that the other reason was because he’d heard and read such impressive reports of her work with neonates.

‘Fair enough,’ she said easily, apparently unperturbed by his scowl and growling reply. ‘But when you said “you”, did you mean “you” as in someone from the unit or me personally?’

Direct, this woman!

‘I did mean you personally,’ he told her, equally direct. ‘It is you I wanted—or was you.’

‘And having seen me, you’ve changed your mind?’ The words were a challenge, one he could see repeated in the blue eyes for all she hid them behind those revolting glasses. ‘Too tall? Too thin? Wrong sex, although the Elizabeth part of my name must have been something of a clue?’

‘You’re pregnant.’

He spoke before he could consider the implication of his statement, and as her face flushed slightly and her eyes darkened with some emotion he couldn’t read, he knew he’d made a mistake.

A big mistake!

‘So?’

The word was as steely as the thrust of a well-honed sword, but as he struggled to parry the thrust she spoke again.

‘Pregnancy is a condition, not an illness, as I’m sure you know. I have worked through the first thirty-two weeks and I intend to continue working until the baby is born, returning to work …’

The fire died out of her and she reached out to support herself on the filing cabinet behind which her ‘condition’ had originally been hidden. The air in the alcove had thickened somehow, and though he knew you couldn’t inhale things like despair and sadness, that was how it tasted.

‘Actually—’ the word, her voice strong again, brought him back to the present ‘—a trip away right now might be just what the doctor ordered. I presume if you’re setting up a neonatal unit you already have obstetricians and a labour ward so my having the baby there wouldn’t be a problem. As far as this unit is concerned, we have visiting paediatricians who are rostered on call, plus there’s a new young paediatrician just dying to take over my job, so it would all fit in.’

The steel was back in her voice and he wondered if it came from armour she’d built around herself for some reason. She’d shown no emotion at all when she’d talked about her pregnancy, no softening of her voice, just a statement of facts and enquiries about obstetric services.

Neither did she wear a wedding ring, although handling tiny babies she probably wouldn’t …

‘Well?’

Liz knew she’d sounded far too abrupt, flinging the word at him like that, but the idea of getting away from the turmoil in her life had come like a lifeline thrown to a drowning sailor. She was slowly learning to live with the grief of Bill’s death, but Oliver’s continued existence in a coma in this very hospital was a weight too heavy to carry, especially as his parents had banned her from seeing him.

Oliver’s state of limbo put her into limbo as well—her and the baby—while the unanswerable questions just kept mounting and mounting.

Would Oliver come out of the coma? Would his brain be functioning if he did? And would he want the baby?

She sighed, then realised that the man had been speaking while she was lost in her misery.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and this time heard him asking about passports and how soon she could leave the country.

‘Right now, today!’ she responded, then regretted sounding so over-eager. ‘To be fair, I’d need a week or so to bring my replacement up to date. She’s worked here before, which is why she wanted to come back, so it won’t take much. And it’s not as if I won’t be coming back—you’re talking about my setting up the unit and getting it running, not offering a permanent placement, aren’t you?’

The man looked bemused, but finally he nodded, though it seemed to her that his face had hardened and the arrogance she’d sensed within him when he’d first spoken had returned.

He didn’t like her—not one bit.

‘There is no one with whom you should discuss this first?’ he asked.

Liz shrugged.

‘Not really. Providing I leave the unit in good hands, the hospital hierarchy won’t complain, and as you’ve probably already discussed your idea of staff swapping with them, they won’t be surprised. And this first trip shouldn’t take long, anyway. It will be a matter of organising space, equipment and staff. It’s not as if you’ll be taking in babies until those are all in place.’

Now he was frowning. It had to be the pregnancy. He obviously wasn’t used to pregnant women working. Well, it was time he got used to it.

The silence stretched, so awkward she was wondering if she should break it, but what could she say to this stranger that wasn’t just more chat? And though she certainly hadn’t given that impression earlier, she really didn’t do chat.

Relief flooded her as he spoke again.

‘Very well. I will be in touch later today with a date and time for our departure. I have your details from the HR office. In the meantime, you might make a list of equipment you will require. My hospital is the same size as Giles, and I would anticipate the unit would be similar in size to this one.’

The words were so coldly formal Liz had to resist an impulse to drop a curtsey, but as the man wheeled away from her, she gave in to bad behaviour, poked out her tongue and put her thumbs to her ears, waggling her fingers at him.

‘He’d have caught you if he’d turned around,’ her friend Gillian said, before taking up what was really worrying her. ‘And what on earth are you thinking? Agreeing to traipse off to a place you’ve never heard of, with a strange man, and pregnant, and with Oliver the way he is, not to mention leaving all of us in the lurch?’

Liz smiled. The sentiments may have been badly expressed but Gillian’s concern for her was genuine. Could she explain?

‘You know Oliver’s family won’t let me near him,’ she began, ‘and Carol is the perfect replacement, and she’s available so no one’s being left in the lurch. That said, what is it you’re most worried about—the pregnancy, the strange man, or that I’ve never heard of this Al Tinine?’

‘It’s the decision,’ Gilliam told her. ‘Making it like that. It’s totally out of character for you. You took months mulling over doing the surrogacy thing—could you do it, should you do it, would you get too attached to the baby? You asked yourself a thousand questions. And while I know you’ve been through hell these last few months, do you really think running away will help?’

Liz shook her head.

‘Nothing will help,’ she muttered, acknowledging the dark cloud that had enshrouded her since Bill’s death, ‘but if I’m going to be miserable, I might as well be miserable somewhere new. Besides, setting up a unit from scratch might be the distraction I need. I love this place, would bleed for it, but you know full well the staff could run it without much help from me, so it’s hardly a challenge any more.’

‘But the baby?’

Gillian’s voice was hesitant, and Liz knew why. It was the question everyone had been wanting to ask since the accident that had killed her brother and put his partner in hospital, but the one subject they hadn’t dared broach.

Liz shrugged her shoulders, the helplessness she felt about the situation flooding through her.

‘I’ve no idea,’ she admitted slowly. ‘The accident wasn’t exactly part of the plan when I agreed to carry a baby for Bill and Oliver, and with Oliver the way he is and me not being able to even see him, who knows what happens next? Certainly not me! All I can do is keep going.’

She suspected she sounded hard and uncaring, but from the moment she’d agreed to carry a child for her brother and his partner, an agreement made, as Gillian had reminded her, after much soul-searching, she’d steeled herself not to get emotionally involved with a baby that would never be hers. She’d played it music Bill and Oliver loved, told it long stories about its parents, cautious always to remember it was their baby, not hers.

It would never be hers.

Now its future was as uncertain as her own, and she had no idea which way to turn. No wonder the challenge the man had offered had seemed like a lifeline—a tiny chink of light shining through the dark, enveloping cloud.

Then another thought struck her. Had the man said ‘our’ departure? Did he intend to hang around?

She felt a shiver travel down her spine, and her toes curled again …

Khalifa sat in the hospital’s boardroom, listening to his lawyers speaking to their counterparts from the hospital, but his mind was on a woman with heavy-framed glasses, a pregnant woman who seemed totally uninvolved in her own pregnancy. Zara had been transformed by hers, overjoyed by the confirmation, then delighting in every little detail, so wrapped up in the changes happening in her body that any interest she might ever have had in her husband—not much, he had to admit—had disappeared.

To be fair to her, the arranged marriage had suited him as he’d been building the hospital at the time, busy with the thousand details that had always seemed to need his attention, far too busy to be dealing with wooing a woman. Later, Zara’s involvement in her pregnancy had freed him from guilt that he spent so little time with her, though in retrospect …

He passed a hand across his face, wiping away any trace of emotion that might have slipped through his guard. Emotion weakened a man and the history of his tribe, stretching back thousands of years, proved it had survived because of the strength of its leaders. Now, in particular, with El Tinine taking its place among its oil-rich neighbours and moving into a modern world, he, the leader, had to be particularly strong.

‘Of course we will do all we can to assist you in selecting the equipment you need for the new unit in your hospital,’ the chief medical officer was saying. ‘Dr Jones has updated our unit as and when funds became available. She knows what works best, particularly in a small unit where you are combining different levels of patient need. I’ll get my secretary to put together a list of equipment we’ve bought recently and the suppliers’ brochures. Dr Jones will be able to tell you why she made the choices she did.’

He hurried out of the room.

Dr Jones … The name echoed in Khalifa’s head.

Something about the woman was bothering him, something that went beyond her apparent disregard for her pregnancy. Was it because she’d challenged him?

Not something Zara had ever done.

But Zara had been his wife, not his colleague, so it couldn’t be that …

Was it because Dr Jones running from something—the father of her baby?—that she’d leapt at his offer to come to Al Tinine? There had been no consultation with anyone, no consideration of family or friends, just how soon could she get away.

Yes, she was running from something, it had to be that, but did it matter? And why was he thinking about her when he had so much else he hoped to achieve in this short visit?

It had to be her pregnancy and the memories it had stirred.

The guilt …

He, too, left the room, making his way back to the neonatal ward, telling himself he wanted to inspect it more closely, telling himself it had nothing to do with Dr Jones.

She was bent over the crib she’d been called to earlier and as she straightened he could read the concern on her face. She left the unit, sliding open the door and almost knocking him over in her haste to get to the little alcove.

‘Sorry,’ she said automatically, then stopped as she realised whom she’d bumped into. ‘Oh, it’s you! I am sorry—I’m a klutz, always knocking things over or running into people. My family said it was because I live in my head, and I suppose that’s right at the moment. The baby in that crib was abandoned—found wrapped in newspaper in a park—and the police haven’t been able to trace the mother. We call her Alexandra, after the park.’

Liz heard her rush of words and wondered what it was about this man that turned her into a blithering idiot, admitting to her clumsiness, thrusting ancient family history at a total stranger.

‘The baby was found in a park?’

Despite the level of disbelief in the man’s voice, her toes curled again. This was ridiculous. It had to stop. Probably it was hormonal …

‘Last week,’ she told him, ‘and, really, there’s nothing much wrong with her—she was a little hypothermic, occasional apnoea, but now …’

‘Who will take her?’

Liz sighed.

‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ she admitted. ‘She’ll be taken into care. And while I know the people who care for babies and children are excellent, she won’t get a permanent placement because she obviously has a mother somewhere. And right now when she desperately needs to bond with someone, she’ll be going somewhere on a temporary basis.’

Why was she telling this stranger her worries? Liz wondered, frowning at the man as if he’d somehow drawn the words from her by …

Osmosis?

Magic?

She had no idea by what. Perhaps it was because he was here that she’d rattled on, because worrying about Alexandra was preferable to worrying about her own problems.

‘You think the mother might return to claim her? Is that why the placement is temporary?’

Liz shook her head.

‘I doubt she’ll return to claim her. If she’d wanted her, why leave her in the first place? But if the authorities find the mother, they will do what they can to help her should she decide to keep the baby. It’s a delicate situation but, whatever happens, until little Alexandra is officially given up for adoption, she’ll be in limbo.’

Like me, Liz thought, and almost patted her burgeoning belly.

The man was frowning at her.

‘You are concerned?’ he asked.

‘Of course I’m concerned,’ Liz told him. ‘This is a baby we’re talking about. She’s already had a rough start, so she deserves the very best.’

It didn’t add up, Khalifa decided. This woman’s attitude to a stranger’s child, and her apparent disregard for her own pregnancy, although perhaps he was reading her wrongly. Perhaps this was her work face, and at home she talked and sang to her unborn child as much as Zara had to hers.

She and her partner talked and sang—

‘Will the authorities also look for the baby’s father?’ he asked, and surprised a smile out of her.

‘Harder to do, especially without the mother, although Alexandra’s plight has been well publicised in local and interstate papers. The father may not have known the mother was pregnant. A man spends the night with a woman, and these days probably takes precautions, but there’s no sign that flashes up in the morning, reminding him to check back in a few weeks to see if she’s pregnant.’

There was no bitterness in the words and he doubted very much that her pregnancy had resulted from a chance encounter. Klutz she might be, but everything he’d read about her suggested she was very intelligent.

Though klutz?

‘What’s a klutz?’

Now she laughed, and something shifted in his chest.

Was it because the laughter changed her from a reasonably attractive woman to a beautiful one, lit from within by whatever delight the question had inspired?

Because the blue eyes he was drawn to behind the glasses were sparkling with humour?

He didn’t think so. No, it was more the laughter itself—so free and wholesome—so good to hear. Did people laugh out loud less these days or was it just around him they were serious?

‘It’s a word we use for a clumsy person. I’m forever dropping things—not babies, of course—or knocking stuff over, or running into people. Hence the really, really horrible glasses. Rimless ones, thin gold frames, fancy plastic—I kill them all. Bumping into a door, or dropping them, or sitting on them, I’ve broken glasses in ways not yet invented. I tried contact lenses for a while but kept losing them—usually just one, but always the same one. So I had five right eyes and no left, which would have been okay for a five-eyed monster, of course. Anyway, now I go for the heaviest, strongest, thickest frames available. I’m a typical klutz!’

She hesitated, as if waiting for his comment on klutz-dom, but he was still considering his reaction to her laughter and before he could murmur some polite assurance that she probably wasn’t that bad, she was speaking again.

‘Not that you need to worry about my work abilities, I’m always totally focussed when I’m on the job. In fact, that’s probably my problem outside it—in my head I’m still in the unit, worrying about one or other of our small charges.’

Yes, he could understand that, but what he couldn’t understand was how freely this woman chatted with a virtual stranger. Every instinct told him she wasn’t a chatterer, yet here she was, rattling on about her clumsiness and monsters and an abandoned baby.

Was she using words to hide something?

Talking to prevent him asking questions?

He had no idea, but he’d come to see the unit, not concern himself with this particular employee.

Which was why he was surprised to hear himself asking if there was somewhere other than this alcove off the passageway where they could sit down and talk.

‘Of course! We’ve got a canteen in the courtyard, really lovely, but I suppose you’ve seen it already. I’ll just let someone know where I’ll be.’

She stepped, carefully, around him and entered the unit, stopping to speak to one of the nurses then peering behind a screen and speaking to someone before joining him outside.

‘How much space do you have at this new hospital of yours?’ she asked, the little frown back between blue eyes that were now sombre.

He glanced back at the unit, measuring it in his mind.

‘I’ve set aside an area, maybe twice the size of what you have here,’ he told her, and was absurdly pleased when the frown disappeared.

‘That’s great,’ she declared, clearly delighted. ‘We can have decent, reclining armchairs for the visiting parents and a separate room where mothers can express milk or breastfeed instead of being stuck behind a tatty screen. Beginning breastfeeding is particularly hard for our mothers. The babies have been getting full tummies with absolutely no effort on their part because the milk comes down a tube. Then suddenly they’re expected to work for it, and it’s frustrating for both parties.’

She was leading him along a corridor, striding along and talking at the same time, her high-heeled strappy sandals making her nearly as tall as he was.

A pregnant woman in high-heeled strappy sandals?

A doctor at work in high-heeled strappy sandals?

Not that her legs didn’t look fantastic in them …

What was he thinking!

It was the pregnancy thing that had thrown him. Too close to home—too many memories surfacing. If only he’d been more involved with Zara and the pregnancy, if only he’d been home more often, if only …

‘Here,’ his guide declared, walking into the leafy courtyard hung with glorious flowering orchids. ‘This, as you can see, is a special place. Mr Giles, who left the bequest for the hospital, was a passionate orchid grower and these orchids are either survivors from his collection or have been bred from his plants.’

Khalifa looked around, then shook his head.

‘I did notice the courtyard on one of my tours of the hospital, but didn’t come into it. It’s like an oasis of peace and beauty in a place that is very busy and often, I imagine, very sombre. I should have thought of something similar. I have been considering practicality too much.’

His companion smiled at him.

‘Just don’t take space out of my unit to arrange a courtyard,’ she warned. ‘Now, would you like tea or coffee, or perhaps a cold drink?’

‘Let me get it, Dr Jones,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. ‘You’ll have …?’

‘I’m limiting myself to one coffee a day so I make it a good one. Coffee, black and strong and two sugars, and it’s Liz,’ she replied, confusing him once again.

‘Liz?’ he repeated.

‘Short for Elizabeth—Liz, not Dr Jones.’

He turned away to buy the coffees, his mind repeating the short name, while some primitive instinct sprang to life inside him, warning him of something …

But what?

‘Two coffees, please. Strong, black and two sugars in both of them.’

He gave his order, and paid the money, but his mind was trying to grasp at the fleeting sensation that had tapped him on the shoulder.

Because of their nomadic lifestyle in an often hostile country, an instinct for danger was bred into him and all his tribal people, but this woman couldn’t represent a danger, so that couldn’t be it.

But as he took the coffees from the barista, the sensation came again.

It couldn’t be because they drank their coffee the same way! Superstition might be alive and well in his homeland, but he’d never believed in any of the tales his people told of mischievous djinns interfering in people’s lives, or of a conflagration of events foretelling disaster. Well, not entirely! And a lot of people probably drank their coffee strong and black with two sugars.

Besides, he only drank it this way when he was away from home. At home, the coffee was already sweet and he’d drink three tiny cups of the thick brew in place of one of these …




CHAPTER TWO


COULD ten days really have flown so quickly?

Of course, deciding on what clothes she should take had consumed a lot of Liz’s spare time. Khalifa … could she really call him that? So far she’d avoided using his name directly, but if she was going to be working with him she’d have to use it some time.

Not that she didn’t use it in her head, sounding it out, but only in rare moments of weakness, for even saying it started the toe curling—and she had to stretch them as hard as she could to prevent it happening.

Anyway, Khalifa had given her a pile of wonderful information brochures about his country, explaining that the capital, Al Jabaya, was in the north, and that his eldest brother, while he had been the leader, had, over twenty years, built a modern city there. The southern part of Al Tinine, however, was known as the Endless Desert, and the area, although well populated, had been neglected. It was in the south, in the oasis town of Najme, that Khalifa had built his hospital.

For clothes Liz had settled on loose trousers and long shift-like shirts for work, and long loose dresses for casual occasions or lolling around at home, wherever home turned out to be. Wanting to respect the local customs, she’d made sure all the garments were modest, with sleeves and high necklines.

Now here she was, in a long, shapeless black dress—black so it wouldn’t show the things she was sure to spill on herself on a flight—waiting outside her apartment block just as the sun was coming up. Gillian, who would house—and cat-sit, waited beside her.

‘Your coach approaches, Cinderella,’ Gillian said, as a sleek black limousine turned into the street.

‘Wrong fairy-tale, Gill,’ Liz retorted. ‘Mine’s the one with Scheherazade telling the Sultan story after story so she didn’t get her head chopped off next morning.’

Had she sounded panicked that Gill looked at her with alarm?

‘You’re not worrying now about this trip, are you? Haven’t you left it a bit late? What’s happened? You’ve been so, well, not excited but alive again.’

The vehicle pulled up in front of them before Liz could explain that sheer adrenalin had carried her this far, but now she was about to depart, she wasn’t having second thoughts but third and fourth and fifth right down to a thousandth.

Better not to worry Gill with that!

‘I’m fine,’ she said, then felt her toes curl and, yes, he was there, stepping smoothly out of the rear of the monstrous car just as she tripped on the gutter and all but flung herself into his arms.

He was quick, she had to give him that—catching her elbow first then looping an arm around her waist to steady her.

She’d have been better off falling, she decided as her body went into some kind of riotous reaction that was very hard to put down to relief that she hadn’t fallen!

‘You must look where you are going,’ he said, but although the words came out as an order, his voice was gruff with what sounded like concern.

For her?

How could she know?

And did it really matter?

The driver, meanwhile, had picked up her small case and deposited it in the cavernous trunk so there was nothing else for Liz to do but give Gill a quick kiss goodbye and step into the vehicle.

In the back.

With Khalifa.

‘Wow, look at the space in here. I’ve never been in a limo!’ she said, while her head reminded her that it had been years since she’d talked like a very young teenager. Perhaps she was better saying nothing.

‘Would you like a drink? A cold soda of some kind?’

Khalifa had opened a small cabinet, revealing an array of beverages. The sight of them, and the bottles of wine and champagne—this at six-thirty in the morning—delighted Liz so much she relaxed and even found a laugh.

‘You’re talking to a klutz, remember. I can just imagine the damage a fizzy orange drink could do to this upholstery. Besides, I’ve just had my coffee fix so I should manage an hour’s drive to the airport without needing further refreshment.’

It was the laugh that surprised him every time, Khalifa realised. He hadn’t heard it often in the last ten days but every time it caught his attention and he had to stop himself from staring at his new employee, her face transformed to a radiant kind of beauty by her delight in something. Usually something absurd.

‘So tell me about Najme,’ she said, a smile still lingering on her lips and what sounded like genuine interest in her voice.

He seized the opportunity with both hands. Talking about Najme, his favourite place on earth, was easy.

And it would prevent him thinking about his companion and the way she affected him—especially the way she’d affected him when he’d caught her in his arms …

‘Najme means star. It has always been considered the star of the south because of the beauty of the oasis on which it is built. Date palms flourish there, and grass and ferns, while reeds thrive by the water’s edge. When oil was discovered, because Al Jabaya was a port from ancient times, used for trading vessels and the pearling fleet, it seemed right that the capital should be built there. So my brother and his advisors laid out plans and the city grew, but it virtually consumed all his time, and the south was not exactly neglected but left behind. Now it is up to me to bring this area into the twenty-first century, but I must do it with caution and sensitivity.’

He looked out the window as the sleek vehicle glided along a motorway, seeing houses, streets, shops and factories flash by. It was the sensitivity that worried him, bringing change without changing the values and heritage of his people.

It was because of the sensitivity he’d married Zara, a young woman of the south, hoping her presence by his side would make his changes more acceptable.

And then he’d let her down …

‘Is the hospital your first project there?’ his colleague asked. Pleased to be diverted, he explained how his brother had seen to the building of better housing, and schools right across the country, and had provided free medical care at clinics for the people in the south, but he had deemed the hospital in Al Jabaya to be sufficient for the country, even providing medical helicopters to fly people there.

‘But the people of Najme, all the people of the south, have always been wary of the northerners. The southern regions were home to tribes of nomads who guarded trade routes and traded with the travellers, providing fresh food and water, while Al Jabaya has always been settled. The Al Jabayans were sailors, pearl divers and also traders, but their trade has been by sea, so they have always been in contact with people of other lands. They are more … worldly, I suppose you would say.’

‘And you?’

The question was gentle, as if she sensed the emotion he felt when talking of his people.

‘My mother was from the south. My brother’s mother was from the north, so when she grew old, my father took a second wife—actually, I think she was the third but that’s not talked of often. Anyway, for political reasons he took a wife from a southern tribe, so my ties are to the south. My wife, too, was a southerner …’

He stopped, aware he’d spoken to no one about Zara since her death, and none of his friends had used her name—aware, no doubt, that it was a subject he wouldn’t discuss.

‘Your wife,’ Liz Jones prompted, even gentler now.

‘She died in childbirth. The baby was premature, and she, too, died.’

Liz heard the agony in his voice, and nothing on this earth could have prevented her resting her hand on his.

‘So of course you want the unit. It will be the very best we can achieve.’ She squeezed his fingers, just a comforting pressure. ‘I know it won’t bring back your wife or child, but I promise you it will be a fitting memorial to them and be something you’ll be proud of.’

Then, feeling utterly stupid, she removed her hand and tucked it in her lap lest it be tempted to touch him again.

This time the silence between them went beyond awkward and, aware she’d overstepped a boundary of some kind, Liz had no idea how to ease the tension. She leaned forward, intending to take a drink from the cabinet—but as she’d already pointed out, spilling fizzy orange soda all over the seat and undoubtedly splashing her new boss probably wasn’t the answer.

Instead, she pulled one of the information leaflets he’d given her from her capacious handbag and settled back into the corner to read it. If he wanted the silence broken, let him break it.

He didn’t, and, determined not to start blithering again, she refused to comment when the car sailed past the wide road that led to the international air terminal. Sailed past the road to the domestic one as well, then turned into another road that led to high wire fences and a gate guarded by a man in a security uniform.

To Liz’s surprise, the man at the gate saluted as the gates swung open, and the limo took them out across wide tarmac to stop beside a very large plane, its sleek lines emphasised by the streaks and swirls of black and gold paint on its side. It took her a moment to recognise the decoration as Arabic script and she could be silent no longer.

‘What does it say?’ she asked, totally enthralled by the flowing lines, the curves and squiggles.

‘Najme,’ her host replied, and before she could ask more, he was out of the limo and speaking to some kind of official who waited at the bottom of the steps.

The driver opened the door on Liz’s side and she slid out, not as elegantly as her companion had but, thankfully, without falling flat on her face.

‘This gentleman will stamp your passport and one of my pilots will check your luggage,’ Khalifa told her, all business now. ‘It is a precaution he has to take, I’m sure you understand.’

Totally out of her depth, Liz just nodded, grateful really that she had no decisions to make. She handed over her passport, then hovered near the bottom of the steps until a young man came down and invited her inside.

‘Khalifa will bring your passport and the pilot will put your luggage on board,’ he told her. ‘I am Saif, Khalifa’s assistant. On flights I act as steward. He prefers not to have strangers around.’

Liz smiled to herself, certain the young man had no idea just how much he’d told her about his master. But there was no time to dwell on these little details for she’d reached the top of the steps, and entered what seemed like another world.

There was nothing flashy about the interior of the plane, just opulent comfort, with wide, well-padded armchairs in off-white leather, colourful cushions stacked on them, and more, larger, flat cushions on the floor near the walls of the aircraft. A faint perfume hung in the air, something she couldn’t place—too delicate to be musk, more roses with a hint of citrus.

‘Sit here,’ Saif said, then he waited until she sank obediently into one of the armchairs before showing her where the seat belt was and how a small table swung out from beside the chair and a monitor screen opened up on it.

‘You will find a list of the movies and other programmes in the book in the pocket on the other side of the chair, and you can use your laptop once we’re in the air. Press this button if there’s anything you require and I will do my best to help you.’

Saif turned away, and Liz realised Khalifa had entered the plane. He came towards her, enquired politely about her comfort, handed back her passport then took the chair on the other side of the plane.

‘All this space to carry two people?’ she asked, unable to stop herself revealing her wonder in the experience.

‘It can be transformed into many configurations,’ Khalifa replied. ‘The flight time is fifteen hours, and I thought you might be more comfortable in a bed, so the back of the cabin is set up for your convenience.’

‘With a bed?’

It went beyond Scheherazade’s fantastic stories, and now Liz forgot about hiding her wonder.

‘I’ve read about executive jets, but never thought I’d experience anything like this. May I have a look?’

Was it the excitement in her voice that stirred the man? She had no idea, but at least he’d smiled, and as she felt a slight hitch in her breathing, she told herself it was better that he remained remote and unreachable—far better that he didn’t smile.

‘Wait until we’re in the air. The aircraft door is closed and I assume the pilot is preparing for take-off. Because we have to compete with both the international and the domestic flights for take-off slots, we can’t delay. But while we’re on the ground, Saif could get you a drink. Perhaps champagne to celebrate your first flight in an executive jet?’

‘I can celebrate with orange juice,’ Liz said, and although Khalifa was sure he saw her right hand move towards her stomach, she drew back before she touched it. The mystery of her pregnancy—or her attitude to it—deepened. He’d seen a lot of Liz Jones in the last ten days, and not by even the slightest sign had she acknowledged the baby she carried.

Neither had she ever mentioned the baby’s father, and although he had a totally irrational desire to know about this unknown man, he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Oh, he’d thought of a dozen ways he could bring it up. Does the baby’s father not mind your leaving now? If you’re still in my country, would the baby’s father like to fly to Al Tinine for the birth?

But every time he thought of a question, he told himself it was none of his business and quashed the desire to ask.

And it was none of his business, apart from the fact that the woman was coming to work for him and he’d have liked to know what made her tick. Having seen her in action in the Giles neonatal unit, he knew she was deeply involved with all her little charges, and genuinely caring, which made her apparent detachment from her own pregnancy all the more puzzling.

An enigma, that’s what she was.

Saif had returned with freshly squeezed orange juice for them both and she smiled as she thanked him—smiled the kind of smile he’d seen her use around the unit, the smile she gave the other staff, the parents and the babies.

And just as irrationally as his desire to know about her baby’s father came the thought that he’d like her to smile like that at him …

She’d pulled some papers out of the bag she’d carried on board, and as she sipped her juice she was studying them.

In order to avoid conversation?

The thought aggravated him. Most women he’d had aboard his plane had been only too keen to talk to him.

But, then, most women he’d had aboard his plane had been diversions—pleasant playmates—not work colleagues, and pregnant work colleagues at that.

And, come to think of it, the days of pleasant playmates were long gone, too.

Though surely the woman had some conversation.

‘The baby in the unit, Alexandra,’ he began, deciding he’d start one himself. ‘Was anything sorted out for her?’

As the delightful smile flashed across Liz Jones’s face he regretted his impulse, because having had it directed at him once, he immediately wanted to see her smile again, to keep her smiling.

‘Alexandra’s grandmother turned up. It was like a miracle. The woman was from Melbourne and her daughter had taken off around Australia, backpacking with a group of friends. Her mother, Rose her name is, suspected there was something wrong with her daughter, who’d been moody and unhappy even while she was planning her trip. It was only when Rose saw something on the television about Alexandra that she began to put the pieces of the puzzle together.’

Khalifa tried to picture the scenario. In his family, many of the women still lived together, three generations, sometime more, and other women in the family visited every day for breakfast or coffee. His grandmother would have picked up a pregnancy in an instant.

‘Was this daughter living with her mother?’ he asked, intrigued now. ‘Or seeing her regularly? Would the mother not have noticed her pregnancy?’

He won another smile, only a small one but still it felt like a victory.

‘Her daughter had always been big, and had put on more weight, but she hadn’t been obviously pregnant before she’d left on the trip. She’d kept in contact with her mother, so Rose knew she’d been with her friends in Brisbane at the time Alexandra was found, but left almost immediately afterwards. By the time Rose saw the appeal for information, the daughter was in Central Australia somewhere, and, from photos sent on the mobile phone, considerably thinner.’

‘And this Rose contacted you?’

‘She phoned the hospital while the programme was still running on her television. She’d tried to phone her daughter but couldn’t get through, but Rose turned out to be a determined woman and no grandchild of hers was going to be brought up in care. She offered to have a DNA test the next day and get the lab to send the results straight to the hospital, but even before she knew for certain, she was on a plane to Brisbane.’

‘And she is the grandmother?’

Was he really so interested in one tiny baby, Liz wondered, or was he talking to divert her as the plane was rising smoothly into the sky? She had no idea, but Rose and Alexandra’s story was a good one, so she continued to explain.

‘She not only is, but she’s a force to be reckoned with. She slashed her way through all the red tape, parried any objections and took her grandchild back to Melbourne yesterday. She says it’s up to her daughter to decide what they tell Alexandra—she’s keeping her name, too—but Rose is more than happy to bring the infant up as her own.’

‘So, a happy ending all round,’ Khalifa said with a broad smile, and Liz forgot about toes curling because this smile was enough to make her entire body spark and fizz in a most unseemly manner.

She’d heard about physical attraction but had obviously never experienced it, because this was something entirely new, and entirely ridiculous because she was going to be working with this man and couldn’t go around all sparky and fizzy every time he smiled.

Although perhaps he wouldn’t smile too often!

‘It was a happy ending,’ she said, ‘and a great relief as far as I am concerned as I’d have hated to go away leaving Alexandra in limbo.’ She hesitated, then the words she knew she shouldn’t say came out anyway. ‘It’s not a very comfortable place, limbo!’

She turned her attention back to the papers in on lap, although she knew their contents by heart. She hadn’t needed to check out neonatal units on the internet, as she’d always kept up with latest developments, but she didn’t want to get anything wrong or miss out on something that might work in Al Tinine.

Al Tinine … If Najme meant star, did Tinine also have a meaning? She pulled out the little table Saif had shown her and set down her file on the new unit, digging into her bag for the brochures on the country, certain there’d be an explanation somewhere.

She could ask.

But asking meant starting another conversation and having a conversation meant looking at him, and while she was looking at him he might smile and …

Klutz!

As far as she could remember, she’d never been a mental klutz, confining her clumsiness to the physical, but now her mind was running wild and bumping into things and losing the plot completely.

Could she put it down to a slight release from the grief and tension of the last few months?

She had no idea but hopefully it would sort itself out before too long and return to the focussed, professional brain she would need to do her job.

And to work out what was going to happen to the poor baby!

Surreptitiously, hiding her hand under the papers still resting on what was left of her lap, she gave it a pat, mentally reassuring it that things would sort themselves out, though what things, and quite how, she had no idea. Oliver was, after all, the father of the baby, and should he want it, and be fit enough to care for it, then all would be well, but there were too many uncertainties to even consider the poor thing’s future at the moment so, to distract herself from the depression she was teetering towards, she forgot about not talking to Khalifa.

‘The name, Tinine, does it, too, mean something?’

Of course he had to smile!

And now she was reasonably close to him, she could see a twinkle in the depths of his dark eyes.

A very beguiling twinkle.

Fizz, spark, spark, fizz—surely pregnant women shouldn’t feel this level of physical attraction!

‘You will have to wait and see,’ he replied, and the promise in his voice made her physical reactions worse—far worse—though all the man was discussing was the name of his country, not some riotous sexual encounter in the back cabin of the plane.

Was it a double bed?

Queen size?

King?

Her wayward mind was throwing up the questions and it took all her determination and discipline to pull it back into line.

Forget about the destination, concentrate on the unit. She pulled out the figures, playing with what she already knew. Najme had a population of approximately fifty thousand people and a high birth rate of twenty per thousand. Khalifa had already explained that about a third of the population were expats, doctors, teachers, scientists and labourers, all brought in from other places to help in the modernisation of the country.

Fiddling with the figures, knowing full well that they told her only three basic beds would be required, she began to wonder just why her new boss was planning a larger facility.

‘Are you expecting the population to grow fairly swiftly, or more people to move into the city? Or is there some other reason you want the larger unit?’

The question had come out before she realised Khalifa was speaking to Saif.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted. I was thinking out loud.’

No smile this time, which was just as well—and the little twinge of disappointment was stupidity.

‘I’m discussing our menu for the flight and you’re thinking work,’ Khalifa said, enough amusement in his voice to start the fizzing. ‘Do you never relax?’

‘It’s Tuesday, that’s a workday for me. And, yes, I can relax, but I did want to check over these figures again.’

He almost smiled.

‘The surrounding area supports probably as many people again, although the majority of them are living as they’ve always lived. Traditions dating back thousands of years are hard to change, and I am afraid if I rush things, we will lose too much.’

‘Lose too much?’ she queried.

‘Traditional skills and values,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean camel milking, or even spinning thread from the wool of goats, but what we call our intangible cultural heritage. The patterns the women wove into the rugs told the history of our tribe, told it in pictures they understood, and using these rugs, which they spread on the floor in summer and hung on the inside walls of their tents in winter, they taught the children. Now the children learn in school, learn skills and information they will need to equip them for the modern world. But how do we keep our tribal history alive?’

‘You’ve spoken before about keeping tradition alive,’ Liz remembered, ‘and while I can’t help you with any ideas about the cultural side, I do wonder, if these people live as they’ve always lived, will they use a hospital to have their babies, and would they be able to adapt to the situation if the baby needs special care?’

Her companion sighed deeply.

‘I’m not really expecting them to use an obstetrician and have their babies in a hospital. Not immediately anyway, but once a baby is born, that life is precious and if it needs help, I am certain they will seek it.’

He paused and she wondered just how much pain this discussion might be causing him—how much it might remind him of his wife.

‘We have always had midwives, for want of a better word: women within the tribe who were taught by their elders to help other women through their pregnancy and childbirth. Now young local women are training not only as modern midwives but as obstetricians, and although they can’t be everywhere, they can work with the older women, explaining new ideas and methods. Maybe through them we can introduce the idea of special care for fragile infants so, should the situation arise, the women will more readily accept the unit.’

‘Or perhaps, with a translator—even with you if you had the time—I could visit some of these outlying areas, take a crib, show them what we can do, and how we can help the babies, explain that the family can be involved as well.’

To Liz’s surprise, the man laughed, a real, wholehearted laugh that changed his face completely.

‘Not families, I implore you,’ he said at last, still smiling. ‘You will get aunts, cousins, sisters, grandmothers—forty or fifty people all wanting to sit with the baby.’

‘That many?’ Liz teased, smiling back at him, and something in the air stilled, tension joining them together in an invisible bond, eyes holding eyes, a moment out of time, broken only when Saif said, in a long-suffering voice, ‘If we could please get back to the menu!’

The menu proved delicious. Slices of melon and fresh, sweet strawberries with a slightly tart mint syrup poured over them. Delicate slivers of duck breast followed, the slices arranged on overlapping circles of potato, crispy on top and soft underneath, while fresh white asparagus with a simple butter sauce completed the main meal.

Offered a range of sweets, Liz declined, settling instead for a platter of fruit and hard cheese, finding, to her delight, that the dates accompanying it were so delicious she had to comment on them.

‘They are from Najme,’ Khalifa explained. ‘We have the best dates in the world.’

Liz, replete and happy, forgot about the moment of tension earlier and had to tease again.

‘You’d know that, of course, from the World Date Olympics, would you? Do they judge on colour and size as well as taste?’

Khalifa studied her for a moment. Where was the stressed, anxious, and obviously sad woman he’d first met at the hospital? Was this light-hearted, teasing Liz Jones the real Liz Jones?

He had no idea, although the thought that she might have relaxed because she’d escaped from the father of her child did sneak into his mind.

‘We just know ours are the best,’ he said firmly, ‘and while we don’t have a date Olympics you’ll be arriving just in time for the judging of the falcons—a kind of falcon Olympics.’

Interest sparked in her eyes and she studied him in turn—checking to see if he was joking?

‘Falcons?’ she repeated.

‘Our hunting birds,’ he explained. ‘It’s one custom we are determined not to let die. The birds are part of our heritage and at Najme you will see them at their best, for everyone wants to have the best bird.’

‘Falcons,’ she whispered, smiling, not at him, he thought, but to herself. ‘Now I really know I’m heading for another world. Thank you,’ she said, ‘not just for giving me this opportunity but for so much else.’

She pushed aside the little table and undid her seat belt.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘if it’s all right with you, I might check out that bedroom.’

Saif must have been watching from behind the front curtain, for he appeared immediately, taking Liz’s arm and leading her into the cabin.

And, no, he, Khalifa bin Saif Al Zahn, was not jealous of Saif walking so close to her.

Why should he be?

The woman was nothing more than another employee, if a somewhat intriguing one.

But as he remembered a moment earlier when they’d both smiled and something in the atmosphere around them had shifted, he knew that wasn’t entirely true.




CHAPTER THREE


SHE was sleeping soundly when he knocked quietly and entered the cabin some hours later. Her lustrous hair was loose, spread across the pillow, a rich, red-brown—more red, he felt, but a deep, almost magenta red.

Beautiful against the white of the pillow and the rich cream of her skin, her hair was shiny, silky—his fingers tingled with a desire to feel the texture.

He moved into the cabin, slightly embarrassed at having to invade her privacy, and more than a little embarrassed by his thoughts. But the pilot had warned they were approaching turbulence, and Khalifa didn’t want her thrown out of the bed. It was fitted with what in a chair would be called seat belts, simple bands that stretched across the bed to restrain a sleeping passenger.

Could he strap her in without disturbing her?

Was it even right to be doing this?

He wondered if he should wake her and let her do it herself, but she seemed so deeply asleep, and the little lines of worry he’d sometimes noticed on her face were smoothed away, the creamy skin mesmerising against the dark, rich swathe of hair.

No, he certainly shouldn’t be looking at her as he strapped her in! He found the far side restraint and drew it across the bed and over her body, curled on its side, the bulge of her pregnancy resting on the mattress, one leg drawn up to balance her weight.

He picked up the other end of the strap, and clicked the belt shut, then tightened it, just slightly, so it would hold her firmly if the plane dropped suddenly, but not put pressure on her belly.

Even under the sheet he could make out the shape of her, but his eyes were drawn to her face, vulnerable somehow without the dark-framed glasses, an attractive face, full of strength and determination, though he’d seen it soften when she’d spoken of the baby, Alexandra.

But not when she mentioned her own pregnancy.

He had to leave.

Heaven forbid she woke and found him staring at her.

Yet his feet seemed rooted to the floor, his eyes feasting on the woman, not lasciviously at all, just puzzled that she remained such a mystery to him.

Puzzled that he was puzzled, for of course she was a mystery to him—he barely knew her.

And probably never would.

Looking at her isn’t going to help you, he told himself, and after checking the cabin was free of loose objects that could fly about in turbulence, he did leave the room, but reluctantly.

Returning to his seat, he began to wonder if he’d made a big mistake, taking this woman to his homeland.

But why?

Having been educated in the West, he accepted equality in all things between men and women. A different equality existed in his own land, but never, in the history of the tribe, had women been seen as inferior for they were the carriers of history, the heart of the family, the heart of the tribe, so it wasn’t the fact that she was a woman …

Except that it was!

Not only was she a woman but she was a woman who, for some totally perverse reason, he found attractive.

Extremely attractive.

Physically attractive.

Could he put it down to prolonged celibacy after Zara’s death? Prolonged celibacy brought on by guilt that he’d not been there for her—not been closer to her—close enough to realise his own wife had been in trouble with her pregnancy …

Memories of the time made him wince and put the woman on the bed right out of his mind. Having failed one pregnant woman, he had no intention of getting involved with another one. She was an employee like any other, and he could treat her as such. Right now he had a mountain of work to get through, business matters that he’d set aside while he was in Australia.

Quickly absorbed in the details of a new university for Najme, in the number of departments the fledgling institution would have and the balance of staffing, he was surprised to find five hours had passed. The turbulence was also behind them, although when he shifted in his seat, wondering what movement had distracted him, a different turbulence made its presence felt.

Internal turbulence.

Liz Jones was standing in the doorway of the cabin, dark, red-brown hair tousled around her face, her eyes unfocussed as she cleaned her glasses with a tissue.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said, stepping cautiously forward, ‘but I need my bag to have a wash and fix my hair.’

‘You might be more comfortable if you leave it down for the rest of the flight,’ Khalifa heard himself say, although he knew he wasn’t thinking of her comfort but of the glory of that shining tumble of hair.

I might be more comfortable if I’d never stepped onto this plane, never met this man, let alone agreed to travel to his country, Liz thought, but, contrarily enough, excitement was stirring in her. Refreshed by the sleep, all the doubts and questions left behind, she was now looking forward to whatever adventure this strange new country would offer her.

Once she was off the plane, that was.

Once she was away from the man who was having such a strange effect on her body.




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