The Sheikh's Secret Child - A Single Dad Romance (The Sheikh's New Bride Book 7)

by Holly Rayner

  “Papa!” Amia shrieked, running around the island to throw herself into his arms, flour and all.

  “Papa? You should never cook Papa,” he teased.

  She giggled and swiped flour down his nose. “We’re making crispy pies! But it’s a surprise for dinner, so pretend you don’t know.”

  “I know nothing,” he swore, raising a hand in solemn oath. “Except that I am in desperate need of a long soak. You two have fun.”

  He grinned over Amia’s head at Alex, who beamed back at him.

  He was getting too comfortable too quickly, and he knew it. She hadn’t even been there a month yet, and he was already beginning to feel as if she were family.

  Still, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  Two weeks into Alex’s employment, Zaiman’s reservation was losing the battle to his emotions. One afternoon, during Amia’s lessons, he was once again strolling with her through the gardens, only this time she’d brought a medium-sized portfolio with her. She carried it casually, as if she had simply picked it up by mistake as she’d left the house, and didn’t reference it at all during the first hour of their walk. Finally, Zaiman’s curiosity got the better of him.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  She smiled a bit secretively, then gestured to a bench beneath a couple of low, shady trees.

  “You remember I told you that I have a degree in art therapy?” she asked as she sat.

  “I do,” he told her warmly. “I admit, I was curious about that particular skill set.”

  “Well,” she continued hesitantly as she played with the fastener of the portfolio. “I actually started my college career determined to turn art into my life’s work. I got distracted—it happens to me a lot, to be honest—because I fell absolutely in love with those twins who I was babysitting on the side.”

  Zaiman grinned. “You have a lot of love to give,” he observed. “I can’t imagine that you would have been happy for long in a career which did not allow you to express that fully.”

  “You’re right,” she admitted almost ruefully. “There’s a certain amount of…self-centeredness which is essential for sculpting a paycheck out of fine art, and I discovered that I couldn’t quite manage it. I never quit creating, though. I don’t know if I could, even if I wanted to. Pictures…they sort of flow through me, settling in my fingers, making them itch until I give them life on paper.”

  “Are those your sketches?” Zaiman asked, gesturing to the portfolio.

  “They are,” she said, gripping the leather case tight. “These are my favorites, the ones born of sudden passion or long, grueling hours. These are the ones which I feel closest to, if that makes any sense.”

  “It makes all the sense in the world,” he told her. “May I?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly, but did not release her hold. “I mean, that’s why I brought them, to show you. Just, um…be gentle? My technical skill isn’t the best or anything—I didn’t make it that far in this direction at school—and um…they’re not masterpieces, is what I’m saying.”

  “I’m no critic,” he told her gently. “Merely an appreciative eye.”

  She beamed at him and finally loosened her grip on the case, opening it and sliding it into his lap. The first image was a watercolor of a crane standing at the bank of a lazy river, triumphantly holding a fish aloft. There were no hard lines or brush strokes, only color delicately splattered across the page, bringing an image to life with no hint of how it came to be.

  “This is breathtaking,” he told her earnestly, and turned to the next.

  A dancer, all colors and swirls, more feeling than form. He could almost hear the music she moved to, and his fingers itched to trace her contours. Picture after picture, each powerful in its own way, each an expression of pure, unfettered emotion.

  By the time he had reached the end, he felt pleasantly spent, as if he had just ridden a rollercoaster which dipped through utter heartbreak and soared through the clouds of the highest joy.

  “These are incredible,” he said, his voice ringing with sincerity. “You have an impressive talent.”

  “You think so?” she asked eagerly, her eyes shining. “I once…well, I suppose I still do. I had a dream of opening up a gallery once, and displaying my work, and the work of people like me, who maybe don’t have all the training but they know how to feel it. The paint, the graphite…it’s all just compressed feelings, just dying to be expressed and shared and—I’m rambling.”

  She blushed furiously, a contrast which made her eyes blaze like emerald coals.

  “I like to listen to you ramble,” he told her. “I enjoy seeing the world through your eyes.”

  Her blush deepened, and she fastened the portfolio. “Amia’s so lucky to have you for a father,” Alex told him quietly. “And I’m sure…” She trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

  “You’re sure of what?” he prompted.

  “I was just…well, I don’t know the story about Amia’s mother, but if she had your love, she was a very fortunate woman.”

  Zaiman’s throat closed of its own accord, and he offered her an uncomfortably tight smile. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was nearly time for Amia’s lesson to end.

  “We should head back,” he told her. “Amia will want to swim.”

  Alex opened her mouth, then closed it again. Though he was relieved that she hadn’t pressed the issue, anxiety curdled his core. If she stayed for as long as he wanted her to, she would eventually learn the truth. He only hoped he could delay that inevitability for as long as possible; he couldn’t bear to imagine how she would look at him after she knew.

  Chapter 10

  Alex

  “Wakey wakey!” Alex opened the curtains to let the light illuminate Amia’s soft purple room.

  Amia didn’t answer, so Alex padded over and sat beside her on her bed.

  “Amia,” she said again.

  The little girl sighed in her sleep, rolling over and away from Alex.

  “Come on, sweetie, it’s time to get up!”

  Alex felt a twinge of concern. It had never been difficult to get Amia to wake up, though getting her out of bed was another matter entirely. Alex pulled the comforter up over her feet, then tickled her lightly. Amia tucked her feet up, making an angry noise.

  “Come on, we’re going to have fun today! We’re going to have breakfast, and then you’ll do your lessons, and…”

  Amia groaned and sat up, her hair a tangled cloud over her face.

  “I’m sleepy!”

  “I know, honey, but you’ll feel better once you get up and moving. Come on now, let’s go brush out that rat’s nest on your head.”

  “It’s not rats,” Amia said grumpily.

  There was a gravely tinge to her voice which caught Alex’s attention, but she didn’t mention it. Experience had taught her that there was nothing worse than a kid who decided to be sick when they weren’t. It was probably just the dry air, Alex decided.

  She dragged the reluctant Amia through her morning routine, barely getting her in her clothes in time for breakfast. Zaiman wasn’t there when they arrived, and Bassam’s seat was empty. A moment after she and Amia had taken their seats, Zaiman rushed in, a terse expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry I can’t eat with you this morning,” he told Amia, kissing her head. “I have to get to a meeting. I’ll be home as soon as I can, I promise.” He extended the promise to Alex with a glance, and she smiled at the inclusion. He was gone quickly, distracted and absent, his mind already five steps ahead of his body.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Amia began to cry. Alex remembered what Zaiman had told her about Amia’s moodiness when he wasn’t available to eat with her, and she decided a firm, sympathetic approach would be best.

  “He’ll be home soon, Amia,” she told her, gently rubbing her shoulder. “He’s never gone for long; you know that.”

  Amia pushed her hand away and flopped dramatically on the table, buryin
g her head in her little arms.

  “Eat up now,” Alex told her. “You’ll feel better with some food in your system.”

  “I won’t,” Amia said with a very distinct croak. “I won’t feel better.”

  “Why not?” Alex asked in a reasonable tone.

  “My throat feels like crying,” Amia wailed.

  “That’s because you’re crying, darling,” Alex said gently.

  “No! It feels like crying when I’m not!” Amia choked on her tears, coughing hoarsely. Frowning, Alex put a hand to her forehead, only to have it slapped away.

  “Amia, stop that. I’m trying to see if you have a fever.”

  “I don’t! I don’t have a fever, I don’t have Papa, and I don’t have friends!”

  Alex pursed her lips as her eyebrows twisted in a wry expression.

  “You don’t have your papa?!” she asked in mock horror. “Who was that man who kissed you goodbye?! We better inform the authorities, pronto.”

  “I don’t have him here,” Amia clarified petulantly, dragging a fork through her untouched breakfast. “If he was here, my throat wouldn’t feel like crying.”

  “He must be magic,” Alex said, injecting awe into her tone. Amia glared at her, but there was a glassiness to her fierce brown eyes which worried Alex.

  “Hang out here for a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”

  “You’re leaving, too? Everybody’s leaving!” Amia sobbed, making herself cough again.

  “Come with me, then,” Alex said, as exasperated as she was concerned.

  “I don’t wanna,” Amia sobbed. “Walking makes me too tired.”

  Still trying to sift the drama from the symptoms, Alex held out her hand.

  “You can walk with me, or I can carry you, or you can wait for me here,” she said. “Which would you like to do?”

  Amia sniffled for a moment, then held her arms out like a toddler. With the child’s head tucked over her shoulder, Alex indulged in a deeply satisfying eye-roll. Her sardonic humor was quickly displaced, however, when Amia’s little ear touched her cheek and felt as if it had left a scorch mark.

  “Thermometer time,” Alex sang brightly as she carried Amia through the house.

  The medicine cabinet in the walk-in pantry was well-stocked, and Alex nodded a greeting to Dabir as she marched through his domain. Dabir cast a suspicious glance after her, then peeked his head around the corner to watch.

  Alex set Amia down on the countertop beside the cabinet, then quickly found the thermometer.

  “It wasn’t the food,” Dabir said defensively.

  “It’s not the food, Dabir, she hasn’t even touched it. She woke up like this, I’m afraid.”

  Dabir didn’t look convinced, so Alex turned her full attention to him.

  “Dabir, the food is good. You’re an excellent cook. She’s a little sick, that’s all. It’s probably just the dry air.”

  Dabir nodded briskly, glancing at Amia. “Feel better.”

  With that, he departed, leaving Alex to attend to the increasingly droopy Amia.

  “All right, love, we have the good one. I’m just going to roll it across your forehead, okay? Sit still for me. Good girl.” She narrated her motion with a nonsense noise, checking the readout the instant it beeped.

  “Well, that’s not too bad,” Alex said. “Only a degree off. That’s a helpful burn, so we’ll leave it alone for now. Do you want to eat your breakfast?”

  Amia shook her head and rubbed her eyes.

  “No, toast and eggs wouldn’t go down too well right now, would they?” Alex asked rhetorically. “Come on then, let’s get you to bed.”

  “Rashad will be angry,” Amia croaked. “My lessons…”

  “Rashad will not be angry,” Alex told her firmly. “I will tell him that you’re sick, and you’ll have to pick your lessons up another day.”

  Considering the matter closed, Alex scooped Amia into her arms and carried her up the stairs to her room. As she was tucking her into bed, she heard the car return, and hurried down the hall to give Zaiman the news. She paused at the top of the stairs to wait, unwilling to stray too far from Amia’s side.

  To her dismay, Bassam had returned alone. He noticed her distress immediately.

  “What is the matter?” he asked.

  “It’s Amia,” Alex said, wringing her hands. “It’s nothing major, at least I don’t think it is—”

  At that moment, a terrible retching sound echoed down the hall from upstairs. Spinning on her heel, Alex bolted back toward Amia’s room. She found her huddled on the balcony with her head pressed against a pillar.

  “Amia, darling, why are you out here?” Alex cooed, reaching for her.

  She stopped short of pulling the girl into her arms, and Amia turned her pitifully pale face up at her.

  “I made a mess,” Amia whimpered.

  “You sure did. Better out than in, right? Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up.”

  She led the wobbly girl to the bathroom and bathed her like an infant, cradling her head as she washed her body. By the time Amia was clean and dressed in fresh pajamas, she had nearly fallen back to sleep.

  Alex tucked her into bed and pressed a cool cloth to her forehead. A light tap on the doorframe announced Bassam’s concerned presence.

  “Oh, I’m glad you’re here,” Alex blurted gratefully. “I need medicine, and a thermometer, and she needs fluids, and…would you sit with her for a minute while I get what I need?”

  “Happy to,” he said somberly. He lowered himself heavily into the chair beside her bed, looking particularly grandfatherly.

  Alex squeezed her thanks into his shoulder as she hurried past. Down the stairs to the pantry in a heartbeat, she began rifling through the medicine cabinet. Fever reducers, thermometers, cough medicine, electrolyte drinks, and little cubes of chicken stock soon filled one of Dabir’s hampers. Hoping to heaven that she wasn’t forgetting something, Alex hurried back up the stairs.

  “How is she?” she asked as soon as she stepped through the door.

  “Sleeping like a baby,” Bassam answered in a low, soothing rumble. “But her fever is worse.”

  Alex slid onto the bed, hamper in hand, and pulled out the thermometer. She rolled it along Amia’s neck, as her forehead was compromised by the cool cloth, and gasped at what it read.

  “Her fever’s at a hundred and two,” Alex said, hearing the panic in her own voice.

  She pressed her lips firmly together, and pulled the medicine she needed out of the hamper. She had just filled the oral syringe when Amia bolted upright with a terrible scream. Bassam, blessed as he was with children and grandchildren, reacted instinctively.

  The little purple trash bin would never be the same, but Bassam’s lightning reflexes saved the duvet. Amia began to cry, and Alex cuddled close to her.

  “Open up,” she said gently. “A little medicine will help.”

  Amia reluctantly swallowed what she gave her, and to Alex’s relief, it stayed down. Slowly, over the next few hours, she and Bassam managed to coax enough fluids and medicine into her little body to bring a bit of color back into her face. By two o’clock, Amia’s stomach seemed to be cooperating again, and she had just begun to feel good enough to get bored.

  Bassam sang her silly songs and played with finger puppets for her for a little while, which pleased her. She lay pale against the pillows and watched him with a weak smile as she held Alex’s hand. A few minutes into his show, however, his phone tittered at him. He glanced at it and sent a text, then gave Amia an apologetic look.

  “I would stay and be a clown for you, sweet Amia,” Bassam said affectionately as he touched her cheek. “But I must fetch your father.”

  “I want Papa,” she said pitifully.

  “Yes, and I will get him. Rest now.”

  Amia wiggled impatiently as Bassam left.

  “How about a story?” Alex suggested. “You have a new fairy book we haven’t read yet.”

  Amia nodded and s
nuggled close to Alex. Her little head was still hot, but her fever was no longer bordering on dangerous. Alex stroked the little one’s curly hair and opened the book.

  “A long time ago, in a grassy meadow, far away, there was a kingdom of fairies. The king himself was an old fairy, as plump and sweet as a blueberry, but no longer as spritely as he once was. The kingdom knew that very soon, the old king would have to name a successor to rule on the throne.”

  “He has to name them, or they’ll take it,” Amia said sleepily.

  “Hm?”

  “Like my throne,” the little girl continued. “The palace is my kingdom. Papa said so. But I have to stay inside it always, or the fairies will take it away, and then Papa won’t be sheikh and I won’t be princess and we will lose our throne and the fairies will take it. I don’t want them to take it.”

  Amia’s pulse and breath quickened in a frantic burst of anxiety, and Alex rubbed her back.

  “The fairies won’t take your throne,” she told her. “See, the book says the king is sweet as a blueberry. A sweet fairy wouldn’t take the throne from such a lovely princess, would he?”

  “Even nice fairies will take it if I go away,” Amia insisted with a quivering chin. “Children have to watch and keep them away. Children are the only ones who can see them.”

  “Have you ever seen a fairy?” Alex asked.

  Amia shook her head.

  “Then I think it’s safe to say that they aren’t going to try to take your throne any time soon. Do you want to hear about the fairy king who needed a successor?”

  Amia paused, her brow furrowing. She seemed to be trying to concentrate, but quickly gave up.

  “Yes, please,” she sighed, relaxing once more into Alex’s shoulder.

  “All right, where were we? Ah, here. The old king would have to name a successor to rule on the throne. But there was a problem. The king had many sons, and all of them felt that they had earned the right to rule. They performed dazzling feats of bravery, traversing huge rivers and battling fearsome voles to prove their worth to the king. But none of his sons could force a promise from his lips, as none were his favorite—for his favorite child was, in fact, Lillibelle, his only daughter.”