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“Oh, no, no. I don’t go under the microscope.” Not a chance. No one—no matter how sexy, powerful and unnervingly sensual they were—no one opened up her private life for inspection. Case. Closed. She dug her trainers into the thick carpet and gave a shake of the head, wishing she’d commandeered her wild spray of curls into some sort of obedience. “Nonnegotiable.”
“My daughter, my rule book.”
“Ha! Wow.” Despite her best efforts to stem her response, she snorted. “Someone’s a little used to getting what he wants.”
He quirked an eyebrow in response; a ribbon of heat flickered through her belly as she watched his lips part to respond to her, a full octave lower than usual.
“And someone’s going to have to learn to be a bit more flexible to get what she wants.”
Robyn could’ve sworn she saw the hint of a smile on his lips before he continued briskly. “You will, of course, need to meet the team you will work with for the surgery in Da’har before I allow it—”
“Allow it?” Sorry, pal. Sheikh or no sheikh, she and she alone decided whether or not the surgery was green-lit.
“Yes. Allow it,” Idris replied, entirely unaffected by her interior monologue. “I make decisions about Amira and no one else. It’s the job of a parent to protect, is it not?”
Robyn bit down hard enough on the inside of her cheek to draw blood as he continued. She’d never be a parent and, as such, was denied any right of reply. This time her silence drew venom.
* * *
“How else do you recommend I look after my daughter’s welfare?” Idris snapped. He would move heaven and earth for Amira. Retaining control of her medical treatment was paramount. If he had control, he could ensure nothing would happen to her. Loss—the aching, hollowed-out-heart kind of grief he had felt when his wife had died—was not something he would ever go through again. He pressed his lips tightly together as Robyn began, again, to fight her corner.
“By trusting me and the other physicians at Paddington’s to do our very best—as we always do,” she replied, only just managing to keep the bite out of her own voice. Kaisha, Idris noticed, was inching her way out of the room.
“Then you will do your very best in Da’har.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” Robyn’s index finger went into overdrive. “Not for the surgery. That will happen here.” She pointed in the general direction of Paddington’s, wagging her finger as if that were the decision maker. “It’s Paddington’s world-class facilities...or nowhere.”
The air crackled between them and for just a moment Idris saw a strength in her he doubted few people were privy to. A confidence in her abilities—under her terms—to which he was going to have to acquiesce.
Interesting.
What was it that made Robyn tick? Gave her the strength to disagree with him when everyone else was busy falling over themselves to appease. What would it be like to share the responsibility of Amira’s care with someone he trusted? The thought instantly brought him back to his senses. He had no one. Amira’s care was his and his alone.
“I can get you anything or anyone you like to work with in Da’har. What does it matter where the surgery takes place?”
“Everything!”
They both froze. Idris felt his features recompose themselves into the unreadable mask he’d worn for so long while the tiniest of twitches on Robyn’s face betrayed a fight against the unwelcome sting of tears. His chest tightened. Yes, he wanted control—but not on these terms.
“Isn’t a surgical theater the same anywhere?”
Robyn shook her head, clearly not yet trusting herself to speak.
“My daughter’s welfare is paramount. She is happiest in Da’har.”
“My patient’s welfare is paramount and, as such, I am happiest operating at Paddington’s.”
“Tell me, what’s so special about it?”
* * *
His softer tone suggested a change of tack. One Robyn felt herself drawn to. Even so, she didn’t share. Not even her colleagues knew about the ectopic pregnancy that had ended her dreams of having a family of her own. All they knew was that Robyn poured her heart and soul into Paddington’s and was as much a part of the place as the very bricks and mortar.
“Spend time in Da’har with us.” A smile—one he should use more frequently—accompanied Idris’s words. “If you meet my terms, I will meet yours.”
“You mean the operation will be at Paddington’s?”
“So long as you join us in Da’har. The sooner, the better.”
A trip to Da’har.
Her lungs strained against the thought. Even so...something told her this was a throw-caution-to-the-winds moment. It was not like she was facing a life or death decision. What harm could seeing a children’s musical and a couple of days in Da’har do in the greater scheme of things apart from scare her witless by yanking her straight out of her comfort zone?
So she’d have a handful of days not knowing if she was coming or going. Days that could change the face of things at Paddington’s, making every moment of scrutinizing looks from the desert kingdom’s leader worth it.
Idris’s eyes bore down on her as he waited for an answer, a shift of his jawline betraying his impatience.
Her tummy flipped.
And...breathe.
See? Survived the first step.
Robyn gave a quick nod and stuck out her hand in as businesslike a fashion as she could muster. “I trust there will be chocolate-covered ginger biscuits where we’re going?”
Maybe not quite as grown-up as she’d been aiming for.
“More than enough.” Idris’s voice deepened as he mirrored her nod, engulfing her hand in both of his as he did. Why hadn’t she noticed how large his hands were before? And how strong. And gentle enough in their strength to make her feel...delicate.
Crikey. If only she could take a pile of those ginger biscuits back with her and curl up in a corner until every last crumb of them had disappeared. A sugar high might be the only way she’d have the strength to go through with this harebrained scheme.
“Kaisha,” Idris called over his shoulder, hands still encasing hers as if they were precious jewels, “can we get the rest of Dr. Kelly’s biscuits put in a basket or something so that she can bring them back to the hospital. To share.” He arched an eyebrow at her, all but proving he’d read her mind.
* * *
A few moments later, a flame-faced Robyn was jabbing at the lift buttons, a wicker basket swinging from her arm laden with enough ginger biscuits to feed an army.
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Where was the elite and exclusive service when you needed it? She could feel the Sheikh’s bodyguards train their eyes on her, hoping they read nothing into the jiggling she could feel beginning as a hit of nerves overtook her entire upper body.
He’d seen into her soul.
How was that even possible? Less than an hour with Idris—Sheikh Idris Al Khalil. Her polar opposite if ever there was one, and yet...
She shot a glance over her shoulder again and grimaced. If the muscle men evaporated she could start banging her head against the controls hoping to knock some sense into herself at the same time. What on earth was she doing? Agreeing to up stakes and hang out in a desert kingdom with the cool-as-a-cucumber mind reader? Her private life was exactly that and she didn’t know how many more X-ray vision looks she could deflect.
A low groan filled the space around her. A droning moan of despair. Oh, wait. She was making that sound. Oops.
She turned around and flashed the bodyguards a quick smile, which grew brighter when she heard the lift ping and the doors click-clack open.
The sooner she could get back into the comforting surrounds of Paddington’s, the better.
CHAPTER THREE (#u3fa03665-a218-53ae-8b9c-694386bb1b82)
“HE SAID WHAT EXACTLY?”
Robyn scanned the sea of expectant expressions, wishing she weren’t the center of attention. Limelight and Robyn were not a good combination. But these people were her friends as well as her colleagues. The surgeons and doctors who were pouring their hearts, minds and endless energies into keeping the doors of Paddington Children’s Hospital open.
“Well, Dominic, um...” Why did they send me? “Biscuit, anyone?” She pushed the basket of sweets to the middle of the surgical ward’s central desk and forced on what she hoped was a winning smile.
“Claire said you said he said you’d have to go to Da’har.”
“Hold on a minute, Alistair. You know how I feel about riding the gossip train.” She tsked, then gulped as the sea of expectant faces grew more impatient.
“For heaven’s sake, Robyn! I’m not engaging in idle gossip, I’m trying to learn if there is even the smallest sliver of a chance we can save Paddington’s from this ridiculous move out to Riverside!”
“You know, you have a lovely voice, Alistair. Is that what drew you to him, Claire? The voice?” The more the group stared at her, the more tongue-tied she became. “Can’t I just send out a memo or something?”
Rosie Hobbes—still glowing from her recent engagement to Dr. Marchetti—turned her flame-haired bob and made another stab at extracting information from Robyn. “You don’t need to give us a blow-by-blow account of what happened with His Excellency, but the key details would be useful.”
“You mean Idris?” Robyn crinkled her nose. Rosie’s fiancé was, after all, a duke and no one went around calling him His Excellency.
A general “ooh” that said, Look who’s on first-name terms with the Sheikh, circled Robyn like an ever-tightening snare.
“Just because most of you lot got swept away with spring fever and are all loved up doesn’t mean I can’t carry on with a professional relationship!” She could’ve added in a bit about the pregnancy chair having done far too much work this year, but no need to turn herself into a human voodoo doll. Wide eyes continued to stare expectantly. Provocatively. Annoyingly.
“It’s August. Cupid’s month off. I have it on good authority.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Alistair teased, giving his fiancée, Claire, a little nuzzle as he did.
It wasn’t as if Idris was all gorgeous and irresistibly off-limits or anything.
“If you’re on a first-name basis,” Rosie chimed in, “he’s obviously keen for you to do the surgery.”
“He is,” she conceded. “But when I told him I would only do the surgery here at the Castle, Idris said he would only agree if I went to Da’har.”
His name felt both foreign and familiar when she spoke it. A sweetness upon her tongue. Not a sensation to get used to. “Besides, a first-name basis doesn’t mean I have to fly out and see his magical desert kingdom by moonlight, okay?”
Maybe Alistair had a point.
“Robyn!” Rosie persisted. “You don’t want to move out to the business park of so-called ‘Riverside’ any more than the rest of us do. Paddington’s must stay open. We just want to know if there’s anything we can do to help you.”
Apart from dropping the playground teasing about Idris, nothing sprang to mind. This was solidly on her shoulders. Unfortunately.
“No, not really. I should probably speak with Victoria about his proposal.”
“Your chic Sheikh has asked you to marry him?” Matthew teased, receiving a jab in the ribs from Claire as Robyn’s mouth screwed up into an “eww” face.
“Is it possible that he’s not a chic sheikh?” Rosie asked with false innocence.
“Or that he’s not really a sheikh?” Victoria posited, another biscuit disappearing from the ever-diminishing pile.
“Maybe the chic Sheikh already has five wives and our Robyn really deserves to be wife number one.”
There was a collective nod of heads.
“Get your heads out of the registry office! The lot of you!”
Too cranky.
She opened her mouth to fix the mood-change grenade she’d tossed into the midst of the group, gaped like a fish for a moment, then dove in. “He obviously loved his late wife very much and from his...less than warm demeanor, I can happily inform you he will be bending his knee and asking me to marry him in—oh, just about never.” She grabbed a biscuit and ran her finger along the edge before looking up at her peers. “And don’t look so surprised!”
Marriage had been on the cards once, but after her epic fail in the baby-making department? Never again. She needed to contain the situation. Set them straight.
“Don’t make fun of my chic Sheikh.”
The eyes trained on her collectively widened.
That probably wasn’t the best way to handle it, Robyn.
“Gah!” Robyn cried, zigzagging her index finger around the group with her stern expression on full tilt. “All of you are very, very silly.”
And she would miss them heart and soul if the hospital were to close. Which only meant one thing.
She’d need to buy a suitcase.
She shushed their teasings and proddings, then put on her I’m-the-head-of-department face.
“Idris wants me to go to Da’har for a few days to get to know his daughter better.” She looked around the group to garner support that she shouldn’t leave Paddington’s.
“So go!” Dominic urged. “I’m pretty certain I speak for Victoria when I say this. If it’ll help Paddington’s—go.”
“Dominic,” she pleaded, “this is your bag, not mine. I’m bound to make an idiot out of myself or put my foot in it.”
“Is not going worth compromising the Castle’s future?” Alistair’s question hushed the group collectively.
“Not fair! You all know how much this place means to me.” Paddington’s was her heartbeat. Her lifesaver. The job offer to work here had come the same week she’d had her insides removed and her relationship had imploded. It had literally pulled her out of the dark and into a new world of possibility. Of hope that, even though she would never be a mother, she could dedicate her life to helping other women’s children survive. Thirteen years later she was still here—but soon Paddington’s might not be.
Her eyes moved from surgeon to doctor to paramedic to nurse. Each of them an unwitting role-player in her fight to survive her darkest days. She brightened as an idea struck. “Why don’t you go to Da’har, Dominic? I already said I’d go to the theater with him. I’ll meet Amira there. I’m sure we’ll hit it off just fine and then, once the show’s over, I’ll let His Excellency know it’ll be you and not me who’ll be joining him in Da’har.”
“What?” Rebecca barked through a mouthful of ginger biscuit. “You’re going on a sheikh date?”
“Yeah, right. Just like the genie is going to pop out of the bottle and make all my wishes come true when I—uh—rub it.”
“Hold on a minute.” Dominic raised his hand before giving Robyn’s shoulder a gentle rub. “As fun as all of this is, Robyn, you are the Castle’s head of surgery, not to mention the doctor who would be performing Amira’s treatment. You should not only be going to the theater on your sheikh date, but you should be preparing yourself to eat dates with the Sheikh from afar in Da’har.”
“I thought you said we were done rhyming.” Robyn grabbed a biscuit and took a defiant chomp. Hopefully it would help mask the jitters launching a Mach-force invasion on her nervous system.
“We are. And you are done prevaricating. Get out the Factor Fifty, my friend. You’re going to Da’har.” Dominic grinned.
