Desert King, Doctor Daddy

by Meredith Webber

  She was frowning slightly and he knew she was trying to picture a childhood so very different from her own, then she shrugged off her thoughts and smiled at him.

  ‘And after you were eleven?’

  ‘Ah—eleven—a big age in our customs. At eleven Abed and I joined my older brothers and their friends at school in far-off England, a strange, cold country with different rules and manners.’

  He paused to return her smile.

  ‘So, to a certain extent,’ he said gently, ‘I can relate to a small child arriving in a house run like an army barracks. My school was much the same—no hugs or soft words there. But we are talking, not eating. Try the little tomatoes, you will enjoy them. And when you have eaten, if you wish, you could have a shower.’

  ‘A shower?’

  ‘Or a bath,’ he added, enjoying her disbelief but also pleased to have escaped the talk of his childhood. ‘There’s a spa bath just through that door.’

  He pointed towards a door on the other side of the bedroom—right where Gemma had imagined the outside of the plane would be.

  ‘A spa bath?’

  ‘Great for relaxing on a tiring trip,’ he said with the kind of smile that not only sent fire spinning along her nerves but also made her wonder about the uses to which the very big bed had been put on previous flights.

  ‘I can imagine,’ she muttered, although she kept telling herself that thoughts couldn’t possibly make her jealous. And why should she be jealous anyway? There was nothing between them!

  ‘Then you’re imagining wrongly,’ he said, and kissed her quickly on the lips. ‘I’ve used this bed for nothing more than sleeping.’

  Gemma moved away from him, edging closer to the pillows, disturbed he’d read her thoughts so easily, but more disturbed by her reaction to a kiss that had been little more than a brush of lips on lips.

  ‘There are gowns in the cupboard over there if you wish to put one on after your bath,’ Yusef was saying, as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted by a kiss. ‘The blue ones are dyed with indigo, which in our land has almost mystic connotations of protection. Wearing one of them, you will come to no harm.’

  Was it the certainty in his voice or the mesmeric eyes echoing the message that broke through the fear? Whichever it was, Gemma left the security of the big bed and without a qualm walked across the room to open the wardrobe.

  ‘Wrong one,’ he said, as she stared at the rack of pure white gowns hanging inside. ‘Try the next door.’

  And there was the blue gown—not one blue gown but two, and gowns of purple, red and yellow, most of them decorated around the sleeves and hems with wide bands of gold and silver embroidery.

  ‘You can, of course, choose another colour should you wish, but only the blue is dyed with indigo.’

  Gemma pulled out one of the blue gowns and held it up, admiring the fineness of the material and the elaborate gold embroidery.

  ‘It is far too pretty to be worn,’ she told him. ‘Maybe a princess could wear it, a—’ she smiled at him ‘—highness!’

  ‘It is an ordinary gown, the kind the women wear at home,’ he assured her, although his voice was gruff, as if her teasing had affected him. ‘When they go out, they will pull a black gown over it, but at home they are like a cloud of butterflies.’

  Gemma heard the love in his voice, and remembered him talking of poetry. To describe the women this way, as he’d described the friends of his childhood as puppies, showed the poet in him, and for a moment she feared for him—this man with the soul of a poet trying to bring his country into the twenty-first century and at the same time ensure peace in his land.

  ‘It’s a job for a soldier rather than a poet,’ she muttered, and when he raised his eyebrows she shook her head, unable to explain her thoughts without embarrassing them both, but more aware than ever of the link he called affinity between them. ‘Perhaps I will have a shower and put on the robe.’

  ‘You will find all you need in there,’ he said. ‘I will sit with Massa so take your time.’

  She walked into the bathroom, reminding herself she could be in a hotel suite, admittedly on a very high floor, but, really, there was nothing at all to worry about.

  There was a spa bath but Gemma felt taking advantage of it was going too far, so she stripped off her clothes, turned on the water in the shower, then stepped beneath the warm cascade, using the bath gel placed ready for her on a hanging golden shelf. Shampoo and conditioner, four different soaps, aloe vera exfoliant, crisp new loofahs—such a range of bathing products filled the hanging shelves that Gemma could only marvel at them.

  Soaping her body all over, she couldn’t help but recall the magic of Yusef’s hands as he’d touched her skin, and the kisses he had pressed, here on the inside her arm, there on the skin beneath her ear. Not that they had meant anything—those kisses. He’d been simply taking her mind off her terror, distracting her, doing her a favour.

  Now a flush of shame swept over her, but she thrust it away and refused to let embarrassment spoil a wonderful memory.

  Clean and fresh, she slipped into the robe, feeling the silk caress her skin. The deep blue colour made her eyes look greener, and as she pulled a hairbrush out of a clear Cellophane wrap she tried to see herself as Yusef saw her. But nothing in the mirror could convince her that his kisses, for all their heat, had been anything more than kindness, and she had to go forward into the new challenges that lay ahead without thoughts of the poet-king distracting her.

  Easier said than done, for she came out of the bathroom, her hair twisted safely back into its usual knot, and the blue gown covering all her body, to see a flare of desire in Yusef’s eyes, so unmistakable her body answered it.

  ‘I will watch Massa now—you need to rest or check on your other pilot, and you probably have work to do as well.’

  She’d tried to sound calm and businesslike, refusing to acknowledge the attraction she was fighting, and maybe it worked for the flare died and he rose off the bed.

  ‘I will go but while Massa sleeps, you, too, should sleep. Rest at least.’

  He touched her on the arm—where the gold embroidery crawled up the sleeve—and left the room, and Gemma sensed he’d drawn a line under whatever had gone between them before this. Now things will be different, that touch had said, and, understanding it, she felt a sense of loss.

  You’ve got a patient, she reminded herself and she checked Massa’s pulse and blood pressure, tore off a strip of readings from the monitor, checked them then put it all in the notebook. Showers on a plane, doctoring on a plane? Was this what she had feared?

  Yet, for all the absurdity of this particular situation, she knew the fear was still there, hovering somewhere deep inside her, waiting to bite when she least expected it.

  So, once satisfied Massa was stable, she settled against the pillows on the bed, closed her eyes and thought, foolishly, about kisses…

  CHAPTER SIX

  THOUGH kisses were the last things on her mind some hours later when, back in her own clothes, in her seat and with a death grip on the armrest, she suffered through the plane’s descent. She knew Yusef was in the cockpit, and though this should make her feel safer, for he gave every impression of being an extremely capable man, it didn’t seem to help at all. And without the distraction of watching over Massa, who was strapped to the bed in the big bedroom, Gemma’s fear had returned with a vengeance.

  She turned her attention to the window, and saw beneath her the turquoise waters of the Gulf and rocky mountains rising from red-gold desert sands.

  The Mountains of Dawn? She’d have liked to ask Yusef it that’s what they were, but even before he’d returned to the cockpit he had distanced himself. In fact, he had changed into his customary clothing an hour or so ago, appearing before her in a long white tunic like the ones that hung in the wardrobe. On his head had been a snowy white square of cloth, held in place by a braided black and gold circlet, so much the sheikh, the highness even, Gemma had felt in awe
of him.

  Not that she’d let him see it, simply offering a teasing bow, bending from her waist as she had been still perched on the bed.

  ‘Do I call you Highness?’ she’d asked, only half joking, but all the answer she’d got had been a quick scowl before he’d read through the notes she’d been making on Massa’s condition and left again.

  The plane slipped lower and lower until Gemma could see whitewashed buildings, glinting in the sunlight, squat, fat buildings lining the coast and further inland a cluster of cranes where modern edifices were rising, like the black mountains, out of the desert sands. Some were finished, high-rise business houses or hotels, but the tracery of the cranes suggested this was just the beginning of Westernisation for Yusef’s country. She doubted he could stop it—he probably didn’t want to—but she understood his dilemma, accepting the good that the West had to offer while retaining the basic beliefs and customs of his people—the values, as he called them.

  A bump and they were down, racing now across the tarmac, the engines screaming as they went into reverse to slow the speed of the aircraft. Gemma eased her fingers off the seat of the chair, and undid her seat belt, anxious to check on Massa. Would the change in altitude have affected him? She doubted it, given the plane was pressurised, but anxiety had her heading back into the bedroom.

  To her surprise he was awake, his eyes fastening on her as she came through the curtains.

  ‘Am I home?’ he asked, and she smiled and nodded.

  ‘Safe and sound—well, perhaps not quite sound, but safe. I imagine an ambulance will meet the plane and you’ll be transferred to hospital for all the proper tests to be done.’

  She did a final check on him, then felt someone else enter the room. The reaction of her body told her it was Yusef.

  ‘Well, you have now survived your first flight,’ he said, as she turned to face him, trying not to stare at the imposing figure he made. ‘I hope the next will not be as fearsome for you.’

  The next would be her flight home, Gemma realised then banished the sudden spurt of sadness. Good grief, she hadn’t really arrived, well, hadn’t set foot on Fajabalian territory, and here she was getting maudlin over leaving!

  Yusef was closer now, checking Massa as she had just done, talking to him in his own language, leaving Gemma to slip back to the cabin where she gathered up her hand luggage and prepared to disembark. She was hovering near her seat, her bags sitting on it, when Yusef reappeared.

  ‘I am sorry I will not be able to accompany you on your first drive in my country,’ he said. ‘But I wish to travel with Massa in the helicopter that will transport him to hospital and I imagine you do not wish to undertake another flight so soon.’

  He was teasing her, but Gemma felt a shiver of fear crawl up her spine.

  ‘Definitely not,’ she said.

  ‘So, I have phoned a cousin who will take you to our compound and see you settled in. Almira speaks English and will look after you.’

  It was a perfectly ordinary conversation and though Gemma thanked him for his kindness in thinking of her, she wondered what lay behind his words—what had caused the slight frown on his usually impassive face as he’d talked of the compound.

  Was he thinking of their conversation in the bedroom when he’d told her of the impossibility of their attraction?

  ‘So this is goodbye,’ he said, and Gemma knew her suspicions were correct. He was telling her he would see little of her after this. This was goodbye!

  Except that now he kissed her, moving closer and flipping one of the points of his headdress over his shoulder so he could fit his mouth to hers and tease her lips into a response so heated she could feel her knees trembling.

  A goodbye kiss?

  Surely not, when it was hotter than a promise…

  Although it had to be…

  Staff members were opening doors, letting in ambulance personnel, two men in white carrying a stretcher. Gemma stepped aside, allowing them by to do their job, watching as they carried Massa out, Yusef following, his attention fully focussed on his patient.

  And although Gemma had already felt his withdrawal, and understood his first duty right now was to his pilot, she none the less felt a stab of pain in the region of her heart.

  Foolishness, that’s all it was! She prepared to leave the plane, a steward hovering over her, asking if he could carry her bag, her coat, then, when she thanked him and told him she’d manage, he ushered her towards the door, although once there he held an arm out to stop her proceeding.

  Massa was being loaded into a helicopter not far from the plane, the lazy whap, whap, whap of its rotors filling the air with noise. The steward was holding her in shadow so she wouldn’t be visible from outside and she wondered if perhaps it would be unseemly for people to realise their ruler had had a woman on the plane.

  A foreign woman!

  As the helicopter lifted into the air, the steward removed his arm and Gemma stepped out into the bright sunlight of Fajabal. She looked around her, deciding that all airports probably looked the same, but nevertheless feeling a surge of excitement at what lay ahead.

  She’d barely reached the bottom of the steps when a black-clad figure, veiled so only bright brown eyes were visible, came tripping towards her, calling her name.

  ‘Yusef has sent me to meet you,’ the young woman said in beautiful English. ‘I am Almira. You will call me that and I will call you Gemma, such a pretty name—it is all right with you? Or do you like Dr Murray? I could call you that.’

  The young woman’s voice bubbled with excitement as she led Gemma to a long black car, where the steward from the plane was already loading her suitcase. They settled into the big vehicle, Almira chattering on as the driver wove his way around the airport and onto what seemed like a main road.

  ‘We will drive and I will tell you what we pass, and that way you will begin to get to know the way—you have a saying, don’t you?’

  ‘Get my bearings,’ Gemma said, although Almira was talking again, pointing out the wharves where the trading boats came in from other Middle Eastern countries.

  ‘We have been traders for ever,’ she said, ‘by land and sea. Our nomadic tribes were contracted to protect travellers and also carried precious cargo along the trade routes. Now we build big buildings to live in instead of tents, big buildings to do our business in. See, here is Yusef’s new hospital, he is so proud of it and tomorrow when you are rested, he will take you there, for that is where your job will be, no?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure where my job will be, or exactly what it will be,’ Gemma admitted.

  ‘Oh, I know what it is,’ Almira said. ‘You are to help modernise the medical system for the women, the tribal women particularly, so things work better and the women feel confident using the services Yusef will provide. Yusef has seen many bad things in other places and senseless waste of life, children dying because they have not been immunised and women dying in childbirth—too often. This is what he wants to change, but too many people coming to our land too quickly have overstretched things.’

  Gemma would have liked to ask more questions, but the scenery outside the car window was changing too much—from squat whitewashed buildings, some with camels seemingly parked outside, to newer settlements, walled compounds, and now high-rise apartment blocks and offices, their glass frontages gleaming in the sunlight.

  A strange, slightly discordant noise broke the silence in the car and Almira reached into a hidden pocket in her black gown and pulled out a small mobile phone. She chatted away for some time, then folded it and tucked it away.

  ‘That was Yusef. He wants you to know Massa is settled comfortably at the hospital. Now Yusef must go to work, he has much to catch up on after his absence. He says he will try to get back to see you this evening, otherwise you can talk about your job in the morning.’

  Almira finished repeating the message then gave Gemma a quizzical look.

  ‘You will miss him if you do not see him this eveni
ng?’ she asked.

  You will not blush, Gemma ordered her body, but she still felt heat rise in her cheeks.

  ‘We have work issues to discuss,’ she said, speaking coolly in the hope of squashing Almira’s interest.

  But the irrepressible young woman just laughed.

  ‘Ah, work issues,’ she repeated, then the smile slid from her face. ‘But best it is just work issues,’ she added, so quietly Gemma guessed she was speaking to herself, though of what, Gemma had no idea, unless it was to confirm what Yusef had already told her, that an affair with her would be destabilising for his country and his leadership of it.

  She sighed, reminding herself she didn’t want an affair with him but feeling the loss of something that had never happened.

  The compound was just that, a high, plastered brick wall, with metal-embossed wooden gates set into it. The gates opened and the car drove through, past a courtyard that seemed filled with roses and around which maybe twelve huge houses were built.

  ‘So many houses?’ Gemma said. ‘Does everyone have big families that they are so large?’

  Almira shrugged her slim shoulders.

  ‘Family!’ she said, imbuing the word with affectionate despair. ‘Someone builds a house and his brother then has to build one bigger. It goes on and on.’

  The car pulled up outside one of the smaller houses.

  ‘This is the guest house. The women’s house is next door to this one. The servants from there will look after you.’

  Almira led Gemma up onto a wide portico where they kicked off their sandals, then into the house, entering a wide vestibule with carpets flung across the marble floors, big sofas and cushions piled against the walls and more carpets decorating the walls. It should have looked strange, without tables or other furniture to break up the space but the colours were so vivid, the room looked welcoming. A young woman in a brown tunic and long, loose brown trousers appeared and Almira introduced her.