Challenging the Doctor Sheikh

by Amalie Berlin

  “Are you emailing pictures?”

  “There’s a thought, but my emails or texts all say ‘Still alive.’ Probably pretty bratty of me to phrase it that way, but I’m kind of out of words where the situation is concerned.”

  No matter the snappy way she described it, he could see the situation bothered her immensely. She fidgeted with her cutlery, pushed food around her plate... “Does she know you’d been learning Arabic prior to coming here?”

  “She knows now. I didn’t tell her at the time.”

  “More smuggled textbooks?”

  Her smile returned, though only at half-strength, and she shook her head. “I only started learning Arabic after I left university, about a year and a half ago. I bought all the units of an immersion language system, but turns out it takes a long time to do a unit. You can’t just sit down and become fluent in a weekend.”

  He switched over to his native tongue, testing her. “So you’ve learned how to say hello and ask for directions?”

  She’d just taken a bite, but paused to listen as he spoke, not even allowing herself to chew before he’d finished speaking. Still at the extreme-attention-paying stage.

  Her response was stilted, with many pauses and errors in pronunciation here and there that reminded him of the way children started learning to make certain sounds. They continued at a slow pace, but she mostly answered him in Arabic, with short dips into English when words failed her.

  She wanted to explore her heritage, hence enjoying the scarves, and that’s what she’d do more of when the project was really going and it wouldn’t slow progress.

  He felt a twinge of guilt. Time off was important, and no one knew that better than a doctor just finishing residency. “I know most people work about one-third of the day, and I’m asking more of you. You should really take some time to move around. There’s probably a gym somewhere in the building—I have no idea. But if not, I can have a machine of your choosing sent up. Sitting is the new cancer.”

  “Do you just have equipment lying about?” The question went from Arabic to English then back again, but she had a solid enough foundation to leave him confident she’d get better the more she practiced.

  “There’s a well-stocked gym at the palace. I can send over whatever you like, then take it back after you’re finished with it.”

  “Elliptical?” English.

  He nodded. “Done. And after we get going—after there is a plan in place for the initial building—I’ll make sure you get some time off to explore. Perhaps Dubai?”

  “Why not here?”

  “No reason. Though if you get hurt in Dubai, there are better medical facilities available. Did Zahir have you bring antibiotics with you?”

  “No, but he said if I got sick to call him first.”

  “Call me first.”

  “Are the healers so bad? It seems like you would have a...low...” Again she paused. Her Arabic wasn’t bad, but she’d gotten to the point it wouldn’t improve if she didn’t force it to with conversation. “Low...number of people...alive...if they did not offer some good?”

  “Population.” Dakan filled in the word she’d been unable to find. “The healers do some good, but the problem is they often don’t realize their limits. My mother’s healer realized...” He stopped himself before he really got going. The Queen wouldn’t thank him for spreading her business around, but it had somehow started to come out. “They don’t do well with infections, for instance. And anything that requires surgery.”

  He couldn’t explain about his mother’s medical condition, or the terrible birth he knew she’d suffered with his younger brother all those years ago, that was all too personal to lay out. Not only for the sake of his mother’s privacy but because he hadn’t yet forgiven his father for putting her into that position.

  The question in her eyes made him want to tell her. He and Zahir had spoken briefly, but as much as he loved his brother Dakan was all too aware that they weren’t equals. Always aware of it. Which was a good part of why he wanted to be anywhere but home right now.

  “Is she all right now? Your mother?”

  The question made him focus and Dakan nodded. “Two months ago she had to go to England to have surgery she should’ve had ages ago, but couldn’t because of the way things are here. After years of quiet illness...”

  Absolute sympathy shone in those lovely green eyes. “Is she still there?”

  “No. She and my father went away on holiday together. Somewhere. I have no idea where. She’s much better now than she had been before. For years. One thing I can say for her healer, he eventually realized the need for surgery, but he’s exceptionally progressive compared to other healers. And my father...”

  He didn’t even really know what to say about that. He probably, in fact, shouldn’t say anything about his father, but if anyone would understand family drama it would be this woman, who had spoken so openly about her past. Even now, he saw only concern in her eyes and unasked questions. He wanted to explain.

  He switched back to English, not only to aid her understanding but also to make it less likely the housekeeper or any of the guards would understand if they happened to overhear. “The reason I said no healers before is because I don’t want them getting in the way. If I give them too much room now that the King has apparently decided he’ll give a new hospital a chance, I can see the system being easily corrupted and the doctors pushed into a secondary role once I’m gone and it’s all running—which would probably make me put my fist through something.” Or borrow weapons from the hall of armaments and do something else violent. “Forgive me. I’m...”

  “Passionate about this. I understand. You should be. Though I don’t really understand what healers do. Is it homeopathic remedies?”

  “The healers and attars work together, diagnosing and brewing tonics and other treatments. But their decoctions have actual measurable amounts of different ingredients—herbs, minerals, food, oils, spices. Most with medicinal qualities. They also try to treat the whole body, not just the particular injured part. Homeopaths focus on distillations of different kinds, taking ingredients down to one part in millions, and largely rely on placebo effect to treat their patients.”

  “No love for the homeopathic medicine, I see.” Her flirting smile returned, and somehow the situation seemed a little less dark suddenly.

  “No.”

  “But treating the whole body sounds like a good thing.”

  “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just about them knowing their limits.”

  She considered his words for a long moment and then tilted her head at him. “So, you want to guard against the King undoing your hard work, but you don’t know how they will respond to your decision to change their plans?”

  “If Zahir wants healers, he can come back here and handle the hospital project himself.”

  And, Lord, did he hope Zahir came to the same decision.

  Zahir’s plan wasn’t exactly wrong—it would still be great for their people—but he wasn’t only doing things this way to make his brother come home and free Dakan to return to England. Even if that was also a fine reason to do whatever he wanted. Not that he usually needed a reason to do what he wanted.

  What he really wanted right now was to make Nira Hathaway smile at him again, something he could do just fine on his own.

  “Before you start thinking I’m not up to the task of building this hospital,” Dakan said, affecting his most serious frown as he spoke, “I’ll have you know I built the biggest Lego playhouse you’ve never seen when I was growing up. I was a Lego master. Everything I built had perfect right angles and I didn’t even try. I didn’t even have to use a...a...” The frown cracked when he couldn’t think of the right word and used one from her professional vocabulary. “A protractor?”

  Though he could see the spark of amuse
ment-tinged exasperation in her eyes—he was, after all, going to make her work on something that might very well be overruled when the King returned and found what he’d been getting up to—she played along. “I don’t know, that sounds like a challenge. Do you still have that playhouse? And just for future reference, the word you were looking for is a set square. You use a set square to make things square.”

  “A set square? Really?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, noted for any future Lego house stories. But, no, I don’t still have it,” Dakan said, returning to his serious expression. “It got blown up.”

  Her amusement disappeared just as fast as it had arrived. “Someone bombed your Lego house?”

  He held her wide, startled gaze for several long, somber heartbeats, and then let himself smile. “You fell for that so easily, Nira. Not all Middle Eastern countries are riddled with war and violence.”

  A mutinous wrinkle formed on the bridge of her nose, and she turned her gaze to every item on the table.

  The woman was going to throw something at him! Food? Something breakable?

  She reached for the bread.

  “Wait...” The temptation was there to arm himself for a food fight, but that might’ve been a step too far even for him.

  Her hand closed on the still-warm flatbread and she ripped off a chunk.

  “Zahir and I stole a trebuchet when I got tired of the little house, made the servants help us move everything to the beach, and obliterated it with a barrage of the biggest rocks we could carry.”

  There.

  A bright, musical peel of laughter erupted from her even as she turned her head and gave him the most dubious sidelong look.

  “I’m fairly certain if you look long enough, you can still find Lego blocks on the beach by the palace.”

  “Okay, you’re forgiven for being a dork. And you’re lucky you don’t have that Lego any more. I might have to challenge you to a Lego battle, which would mess with our hospital timeline.”

  “Can’t have that.”

  “Would be a tragedy.”

  “Or we could go for a Lego hospital instead, scrap all this planning nonsense. Cheerful red, blue and yellow bricks. Green roof. Easy snap assembly.”

  She pretended to consider his suggestion, nodding as she munched on the bread. “I have to ask: where in the world did you find a trebuchet? And how did you steal one, for goodness’ sake? How old were you when you got tired of your Lego playhouse, twenty?” Then she did chuck a small bit of bread at him, bouncing it off his chest.

  He picked it up and ate the evidence before the housekeeper could catch them. “I was six. Zahir was almost twelve. It was a very small working model from the Hall of Armaments at the palace. One of our ancestors had built this small trebuchet a few centuries back for some reason, I have no idea why. It’s perfectly preserved, still in working order, and has since been chained to the floor. We took off with it. Then we both got punished, Zahir more than me because I was six. Big lecture about responsibility and being good leaders, which I’ve come to believe he took far too seriously.”

  Talking and laughing with her was enough that Dakan could almost forget where he was and where he had to return to when he left the penthouse.

  In the palace and on duty, he had to be serious. He had to be what was expected of him, or at least try to be. He had to be post-trebuchet Zahir, and he sucked at being any version of Zahir—even his crappy knock-off attempt chafed terribly.

  Something he couldn’t fix right now. It was better to try and fix Nira’s problems than his own. And he was starting to think he could. The more he spoke with her, the more he became convinced he’d seen her father somewhere. Not just seen but spoken with. She had mannerisms he’d have sworn were learned but which seemed to have been inherited.

  He’d definitely seen that sideways look before. At some point in his life. Here, maybe. Maybe in a neighboring country he’d visited for some reason. It hadn’t been in England, and as little time as he’d spent in Mamlakat Almas since going away to school young, it shouldn’t be too hard to revisit those short months per year and what he’d gotten up to during holidays.

  He’d have to sneak in and get a shot of that photo of her parents when she wasn’t looking, so he could have some time to really study it, perhaps jog his memory.

  It was in there somewhere, buried, but it would be cruel to get her hopes up if he couldn’t produce the information.

  “Now, back to Arabic. You want to become fluent so you must practice. Now, which famous ancient buildings did you reconstruct with your Lego?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE NEXT DAY Dakan sat in his father’s study, signing the daily papers staff brought him, when his mobile rang.

  Nira?

  He dropped his pen and hurried across the study to where he’d set his mobile phone charging earlier. He’d given her his number in the hope she’d call—not that he wanted her to have trouble with the examples he’d given her, but talking to her was the highlight of his days in residence. He wanted to make her misbehave a little, a desire she already harbored, or she wouldn’t have reacted to his flirting in a way that had made him flirt with her even more, a way that made him want to throw off his responsibilities and hers and spend the day just talking. Playing.

  Their verbal sparring was the closest thing to play he could remember having had at home since the trebuchet incident.

  He lifted the phone and turned to look at the display. Not Nira. But it was the next best thing.

  “Zahir. I’m running amok, you really should get back here and stop me.”

  “Good morning to you too, Dakan.” His brother, ever able to recover smoothly from whatever Dakan threw at him. “Have you reinstated the harem?”

  “No, but now that you mention it...” he returned to the seat and leaned back “...I like that architect you hired. I think she’d look fantastic in something sheer and dirty.”

  “It would be Mother you’d have to fear if you tried it. Besides, Nira works for you. Don’t go putting your cheesy moves on her.”

  “Too late.” Come on, Zahir, be the responsible one. Dakan hated being the responsible one.

  “You’re lying.”

  Dakan tsked. “I’m the ruler in residence so don’t start flinging insults. I may have to...figure out some kind of...diplomatic something. Sanction. That’s the word. Or sentence you to hard labor. Here. In the palace.”

  “I thought you liked Nira. It’s such a chore, working with her?”

  “It’s not her, believe me. She’s gorgeous and mysterious. And a little bit weird.”

  “Just like you like them.”

  Dakan laughed this time. “Yes. Somehow, despite not being my type, she sort of is my type. How’s Adele? Missing the palace? Let me talk to her. I bet she’d like to come and visit for a few decades.”

  “Adele’s pregnant.”

  Dakan’s stomach bottomed out from those two simple words. “That was quick.”

  And that was the wrong reaction...

  “Yes.” Zahir let the word hang and Dakan didn’t even have to ask what it meant.

  Zahir wasn’t coming home. No way would he let her deliver here, with the medical system being what it was.

  “Congratulations.” There it was, the right response, even if he had to strain to get it out.

  Zahir let the pause extend for a moment, no doubt searching for the right thing to say to Dakan. “It’s only forty weeks. Less now, since it’s been a few weeks already.”

  “Right.” The filler word squeaked past his lips, just because he needed something to say.

  Plans dashed. Would anything be able to shorten his stay now?

  “Father and Mother will be back before then. A couple more weeks,” the voice said down the line. />
  But the hospital would still need to be Dakan’s job. He couldn’t just up and leave as soon as their parents returned, though that was how things had always gone for Zahir: live in London and come home only when he was needed. Hospitals took a long time to build, more than a year. Probably a couple of years. Stuck.

  But a birthing center... That he might be able to get done in a few months.

  * * *

  It’d been two days since she’d last seen Dakan, and Nira had spent most of that time working. In between viewing the examples he’d had compiled, she’d spent too much time mentally replaying their dinner and the thrill that had rushed through her with every playful word and flirting smile. But the rest was about proper working, still a lot of work between spells of idiocy.

  The only other time away from her workstation was to tend to necessities, so her timecard—not that Dakan had made a single other mention of the thing—was so filled it shouldn’t be legal in a civilized society.

  Today she’d even showered and put on lounging pajamas to work in. The dresses she’d taken to wearing since she’d arrived were largely comfortable but light in color and they all had sleeves. Sleeves hindered her board work and invariably ended up smudged all around the elbow with fresh graphite—but the pajama top was sleeveless.

  Besides, it was just her and Tahira. The guards she had stay outside the flat and downstairs, aside from their hourly checks, so they probably saw her bare arms from the back a time or two when they peeked in and she sat bent over the drafting table, her hair twisted into a sloppy knot on top of her head and secured by pencils.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Dakan’s voice rumbled down her spine, and she suddenly wished she’d worn sleeves to hide the wash of goose-bumps racing over her skin.

  Thank goodness she’d had the forethought to put on a bra.

  Pencil in hand, she turned on her stool and smiled so brightly she hoped it would drown out all other aspects of her appearance.

  “Not good?” he corrected. “Well, I’m about to make it more interesting.”