Healing the Sheikh's Heart

by Annie O'Neil

  “It all sounds incredibly well thought out.”

  “These are the types of decisions I enjoy making,” Idris said, surprised to hear the depth of feeling in his own voice.

  “Did you study all of this? The hydro, the salination, solar-powered orchard-crafting?” Robyn laughed as she garbled the multilayered technologies, and he found himself chuckling along with her.

  The team of engineers he’d worked with to put together the complementary power and hydration systems would’ve died of shock. It had been one of the first projects he had put together in the wake of his wife’s death when he had been a shell of the man who had ascended to the throne. Where he had once felt there was nothing he couldn’t overcome, he now saw what all those who came into contact with him must’ve spotted a mile off. A man embittered by life. Angry. Hollowed out by the cruel twist life had taken on an otherwise blissfully happy ride.

  “You remember, of course, that I studied architecture in university,” he explained. “I also took a higher degree in urban and rural planning. So much of the region—the Gulf Peninsula—is turning to desert faster than we can find ways to fight the loss of precious agricultural land. If farmers abandoned their crops and moved to the cities, we as a nation would be forced into an untenable position. My people must have food and water. The rest...?” He paused, eyes scanning the lush agricultural land below he played a key part in maintaining. But the swell of pride wasn’t for himself. “I want Amira to have a country able to fend for itself when it is her turn to rule. A country that hasn’t been savaged for its resources for my own gain without thought for the ramifications.”

  “That is very noble,” she said, feeling deep in her heart that a man who cared this deeply was both generous and kind—no matter the steely exterior he presented to the world.

  As if to prove her point she watched as his jaw clenched while an eyebrow arched in displeasure at her words.

  “There is no nobility in it when there isn’t a choice. It is the responsibility of a father to look after his daughter.”

  “I know, but I don’t think you see Amira that way. As a responsibility.” Robin’s voice was softer now. A welcome whisper in his subconscious telling him what he already knew. He did it for love. A love he found difficult to show for fear of ever experiencing the pain he had endured seven years ago.

  “Just as well,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion. “We’ve a busy few days ahead of us. All of us.”

  His lips pressed and tightened—a cue to Robyn that the conversation was over. As she relaxed back into the deep seat of the luxury four-by-four, he inhaled the sweet meadow blossom scent her movement left behind.

  For every part of him that wanted Robyn near, that enjoyed having her as a confidante, a friend, there was another very active, near brutal part of him that knew having her close was akin to stepping in quicksand. If he were to fall in love with Robyn Kelly, there would be no going back. She deserved nothing less than a man’s entire heart and he didn’t have that to offer.

  His nation and his daughter had endured enough. His future would be a solitary one.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “HOLD OUT YOUR HANDS!”

  Amira could hardly contain her giggles, while her father’s face was a picture of fastidious concentration.

  “This is your grandfather’s secret technique. Pay close attention.” He tightened his grip on the knife and made a final and sharp incision.

  “Oh!” Robyn cried. “Careful.”

  “And they all come out. Quickly, your hands! Just like this!”

  Amira and Robyn held their hands out as gem after gem of ruby-colored fruit cascaded into their open palms. She’d never seen such beautiful pomegranates, let alone picked them from a tree jeweled to the hilt with them.

  “So.” Idris closed his sharp pocketknife after swiping the blade along a few tree leaves and plucked a couple of seeds from Robyn’s cupped hand. “What do you think?”

  He popped them into his mouth, and as his eyes connected with hers, the sun-warmed scent of his body swirled around her like an aphrodisiac. Her gaze shifted from his dark eyes along the straight-as-an-arrow line of his nose and landed on his mouth, her own lips parting as she watched the tip of his tongue slip out to retrieve a drop of juice. She stood, mesmerized, as one of his teeth bit down on his lip until slowly, agonizingly, the fullness of it was released, the color intensified by the skid of tooth against his very full, very kissable mouth.

  Everything about the moment screamed erotic: the warm orchard and ocean-scented evening air; stars pinging out against the ever-increasing darkness above the sea as the waves hushed and whooshed upon the sand, advanced and retreated. Advanced and retreated. Candles flickered in abundance inside the hurricane lamps dotted liberally about the “campsite” Idris’s staff had set up for them three days into their journey.

  An entire crescent of perfect beach, just for them! Bedouin-style tents with a luxury of mattresses, pillows... Everything she would have imagined an Arabian warrior would be privy to. The canopy-tented “living room,” the solar-powered showers hidden by gently billowing canvases, the bed so large she could sleep on it diagonally without the slightest of concerns—none of these were set out to impress her. It was how the very real Sheikha-in-waiting and her father, the powerful and benign leader of all they had seen on their extraordinary trip to this seaside retreat, lived. Not ostentatiously, but it was undeniably luxurious.

  She chanced another glance at Idris and was instantly snared by the intensity of his returned gaze. Unable to move, the only thing she could remember to do was breathe.

  Was the pull of attraction mutual? The same type of magnetism that bound the moon, the earth and the sun. Utterly organic. Completely undeniable.

  Her body had no resistance to fight the waves of desire being near Idris elicited. Proximity as he took a single step closer toward her only magnified the sensations, the tingles of response. His unblinking gaze, knowingly or not, was turning her very essence into a heated, molten pool of longing.

  She lifted her hand, only just stopping herself from reaching out to caress the dark outline of his evening stubble when Idris quickly averted his eyes to remind her they weren’t alone.

  Amira, thankfully, was oblivious to their otherworldly moment brought on—no doubt—by too much time in the sun and not enough...

  Not enough what? Common sense?

  Probably.

  Robyn sucked in a quick breath of air and plopped down on the rattan sofa awash with pillows, patting the space beside her for Amira to come and finish off the pomegranate seeds her father had prepared for her after another wonderful picnic dinner.

  Idris took a seat across from them underneath the large, open tent his staff had arranged for them to enjoy their supper and the sunset.

  Just as well, she chided. Amira was why she was here, not...not having moments with the last person on the planet she should be getting all swoony over. Not that she was swoony or anything. Not much, anyway.

  * * *

  “So.” Idris eventually broke the silence, well aware something had passed between them. Something overtly sensual. “I suppose it’s time for Amira to head to bed.”

  “Already?” Robyn’s expression was slightly stricken as though she were planning on using his daughter as a shield to protect herself from being ravaged by him. The thought was far too easy to picture.

  Robyn’s golden curls splayed out on the rich colors of the throws and blankets that made up his bed. Her slender limbs moving, responding beneath him as he—

  “Do you read to her?”

  Idris’s eyebrows furrowed together in near disbelief. “You do remember my daughter is deaf, Dr. Kelly?”

  Robyn stiffened at the use of her formal title and he instantly regretted the patronizing tone he knew came too easily. More so wh
en he saw his daughter was following the words being shaped by his lips.

  Amira blinked, almost in confusion at the version of the father neither of them much liked. Cold. Unfeeling. Indifferent. All things he was most definitely not feeling now, but needed to fight.

  Robyn saw the interchange and busied herself with scrubbing a wet wipe over Amira’s hands, giving a kiss to each of her fingertips after it had been cleaned. She looked across to Idris when she gave Amira a wipe to do the same for her.

  “Has anyone taught you how reading to the deaf needs to be a slightly different experience?”

  He shook his head no. Communicating and educating his daughter was incredibly complex. He had, much to his shame, relied on the hope that one day the miracles of modern medicine would eradicate the need to explore all the various teaching techniques a deaf child required when his energies should have been spent on working with deaf educators—taking advantage of his daughter’s quick and eager mind.

  One look from Robyn and he felt disappointed in himself. As Robyn had said, the operation wasn’t necessarily going to be successful. But he would empty the family’s coffers to the very last coin if it would make it so.

  “I have a book in my bag I think she might enjoy. The vocabulary might be a bit advanced for her reading level.” Robyn’s voice was neutral, but those amber eyes of hers spoke volumes.

  This isn’t about you, they said. Your ego. Your hopes. This is about your daughter and her welfare. Right. Now.

  “Would you like to show us?”

  The light he so enjoyed seeing returned to Robyn’s eyes at his request.

  “Very much.” She thanked Amira for cleaning her hands, then explained what she wanted to do—sending the little girl to run and fetch the book.

  “We could have sent someone.” Idris felt the thunderclouds gather again.

  “Children,” Robyn said firmly, “enjoy helping. It makes them feel a part of things.”

  “I give her everything she needs.”

  “No one is saying otherwise.” Robyn folded her hands together on her lap as if they would provide the calm she needed to keep her response in check. “Sometimes what a child needs more than things is to be needed.”

  Idris sat back against the pile of scarlet and white pillows, wondering what had made this woman so strong. No one spoke to him like this. Ever. And yet...they were all things he needed to hear. The voice of reason to the black-and-white view of the world he’d adopted after his wife had died.

  “Here she is.” He beckoned his daughter to come over and join him, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders as she held the book up for Robyn to see.

  “Great!” Robyn signed as she spoke in a steady clear voice. “Idris, if you wouldn’t mind reading the story, I will sign along with my own narration. That way you can see the difference.”

  “Won’t you just be repeating what I say?”

  “Not exactly. Sign language isn’t a word for word translation. It’s more...” Her eyes flicked up to the soft billows of fabric hanging above them, the candlelight adding gold to the luster of her richly colored irises. “Signing a story is more often a case of capturing the essence of the tale, details when necessary, but a big mix of using your face and your expressions to tell the story, as well. Often in written language, so much is implied and, in this case, they need to be explained. Sometimes just using the pictures in the book along with a sign is helpful. Here, let me show you.”

  She crossed to where he and Amira were seated and sat next to him, her scent immediately causing him to lose focus and stiffen.

  The entire reason he’d sat across from her was to shake off his body’s unbidden response to Robyn, not compound it! And yet, her focus was entirely on Amira, the book he held in his lap and showing him, as he imagined she would show any parent trying to do the best by their child, how to read a story.

  “So!” Robyn clapped her hands together and gave him a quick look. “Shall we begin? If you just start with the title.”

  “Beauty and the Beast,” Idris read dryly. “I suppose you find that funny.”

  Robyn looked up at him, her face a picture of innocence and then began to sign. Her fingers widened as she fanned them across her face with a beatific expression in her eyes, then abruptly crumpled her face into a grumpy mirror image of his own, fingers curling in an angry twist in front of the face before she looked back at him with a grin.

  “It’s just a fairy tale. Don’t be scared.”

  Idris gave her his best sidelong look. “Shall I continue?”

  “Yes, please do. This is excellent fun!”

  Much to his surprise, Idris did actually enjoy telling the story “Robyn-style.” He read the story aloud, one line at a time, and Robyn would either repeat the line verbatim—particularly if it was about an action—or, if it was more subtle, she would explain it fully until Amira’s eyes lit with understanding. Seeing Robyn’s slender fingers spell things out alongside the pictures in the beautifully illustrated book and then take flight, usually up toward her face where her expressions alone told the tale of a young woman traded by her father in exchange for a single, exquisite rose by a hideous monster who was really a handsome prince cast under a spell for cruel, selfish behavior.

  Idris, despite an inclination to slam the book shut at the constant flow of similarities, found himself engaged. He grew nearly as wide-eyed as his daughter when Beauty left the Beast behind only to discover him half-dead for grief at the loss of her and ultimately transformed into the handsome prince he had once had the chance to be.

  “And that,” Robyn said with a satisfied smile at the sight of her openmouthed audience, “is how you tell a story in sign language!”

  “Very...persuasive.” Idris chose his words carefully. It could just be coincidence that art was imitating life a bit too accurately. Who knew? Maybe that magic carpet bag of hers had an entire library of fairy tales and myths in it. Fiction. That was all it was, he reminded himself as his daughter’s sleepy form began to press against him. “It’s definitely time for this little one to get her beauty sleep.” He scooped her up in both arms, Amira’s long black hair swishing across his arm as he brought her forehead up to meet his lips for a kiss. As he dropped the kiss on his daughter’s brow, he looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of Robyn’s tear-filled eyes as she looked out to the sea, her hands wiping at her cheeks as she walked briskly out into the darkness toward the retreating tide.

  “Are you happy with your tent?” he called after her. It was a ridiculous question. She’d been sleeping in the same high-caliber Bedouin-style tent for the past three nights they had been touring. It was every bit as luxurious as the palace. Tonight, however, with the glaze of tears in her eyes, he was vividly aware she would be on her own and he wanted, much to his surprise, to be with her. All of them. Just as he had with his extended family when they’d come to this very same beach when he was a child. The whole lot bundled into the extensive bedroom, telling stories, laughing, until one by one, eventually, they had all drifted off to sleep with the sound of the waves as their lullaby.

  “Very,” came the tight reply, shoulders stiffening at the realization she hadn’t quite escaped his notice.

  “I’ll just put Amira down.”

  He saw her nod her head, working her way to the shoreline, only the phosphorescence of the foam visible in the inky darkness now enveloping her.

  * * *

  “Here.” Idris’s voice broke into the still night air. “For the cold.”

  Robyn started as she felt a soft cashmere wrap being placed on her shoulders. She didn’t need to turn to identify the voice or the fingers staying just a moment longer than she would have thought necessary to ensure the wrap would stay.

  “Thank you for the story. Amira loved every moment of it.”

  “My pleasure.” She kep
t her gaze straight ahead, somehow finding it just a bit too painful to look him in the eye. Not with everything she was feeling. The weightless, out of control, topsy-turvy journey that was falling in love. Because that was what was happening. Despite her very best efforts, she was falling in love with Idris. At least, with the man he was when he let his guard down. When he reveled in showing them the best way to open a pomegranate. When he tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he spoke of his country’s transformation from tribal outpost to international stalwart on both financial and political fronts. The way his eyes lit when he looked first at his daughter and then, on occasion, at her.

  What she couldn’t bear was the wall she regularly saw slide into place when whatever it was that was happening between them grew too intense.

  But he was right, wise even, to keep the wall between them strong. He belonged here. A modern-day knight for a country that needed a strong leader—someone unafraid to face the future on his people’s behalf.

  Robyn was half in love with the country, as well, but her place was at Paddington’s. Behind the scenes. Doing what she did best beneath the harsh glare of the surgical lamps...

  “Come.” Idris tipped his chin toward the soft light of the tent. “Sit with me awhile.”

  “I should probably make a few calls. Check in with the hospital.” She winced apologetically, backing away from the hand he’d held out to place on the small of her back.

  He noticed the move but said nothing, folding his hands behind his back, as if he’d intended to do so all along.

  “Actually...it’s probably best we speak before you make that call.”

  Robyn’s sense shot to high alert. “You don’t want to cancel the surgery, do you?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” He shook his head and took a seat in an armchair, gesturing that she should sit on the sofa across from him while they spoke. “It’s just, seeing you here, with Amira—the both of you discovering what I love about Da’har so much—I’m beginning to think it would be best if we had the surgery here. She’s had so much change already—”