by Annie O'Neil
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
“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.”