Desert King, Doctor Daddy Read online

  Yusef walked quietly along the dimly lit corridor in the children’s wing—he couldn’t rest without seeing his little girl, no matter how late the hour.

  Pushing open the door, he saw light fall on red hair, and Yusef could only stare in disbelief, for there, on a mat on the floor, lay Gemma, her fiery red hair splayed across the pillow, her clothes disheveled and creased. Her arms were around his daughter, who was snuggled close into Gemma’s body.

  His instinct was to wake the visitor, to tell her this wasn’t her place. But why did seeing her there anger him, when all he should feel was gratitude? He didn’t know.

  Or did he? Wasn’t it the stirring of his body, the shamefulness of such a reaction, that had angered him?

  But as he watched the sleeping woman, with his child in her arms, desire departed, to be replaced by a feeling he didn’t recognize, a kind of churning deep inside him, a longing—but for what, he didn’t want to consider.

  Dear Reader,

  One of the things I love about my country is the ethnic mix of people who inhabit it with me. As a writer of medical romances, I am always keenly interested in the cultural variances in birth practices, so it seemed right and natural for me to begin this book in a clinic and birthing center set up to handle such differences.

  That a handsome sheikh would take an interest in the center—and eventually in my heroine—was an added bonus. When he whisked her off to set up similar services for women who were refugees in his own country, I was a bit worried about what would happen next. It takes more than just money to provide services that women will actually use—you have to win their trust first.

  Gemma, my heroine, manages to do this and a whole lot more, finding not only love in Yusef’s country, but a ready-made family.

  Best wishes,

  Meredith Webber

  DESERT KING, DOCTOR DADDY

  Meredith Webber

  DESERT KING, DOCTOR DADDY

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHE was almost done. The place shone—well, as much as an old terrace house in the inner city could shine. Magazines in the waiting room were neatly stacked, the toys tucked into toy boxes, the consulting rooms tidy, treatment rooms gleaming, crisp white paper on the examination tables. Flowers for the kitchen table, that’s all she needed then she could change and be ready for the arrival of the Mystery Benefactor.

  His donations had become so important over the last two years that Gemma couldn’t help but think of him in capital letters. She grabbed a pair of scissors and headed out the door, knowing from the perfumed air that the valiant old mock orange tree on the eastern side of the house must be in flower again. A few sprays would lift the kitchen—the only room in the old house that hadn’t benefited from the centre’s extra income.

  ‘Lady, lady!’

  She was on the top step when she heard the call and turned to see a young man all but carrying a heavily pregnant woman along the footpath.

  ‘Help me!’ the man cried out again, but Gemma was already on her way towards him, the black limousine pulling up outside ignored in her haste to get to the couple.

  Reaching them, she hooked her arm around the woman’s waist to take her weight on one side, and recognised the beautiful features—Aisha, a young Somali woman who had stopped her antenatal visits two months ago, refusing to return to the Women’s Centre in spite of repeated requests that she come in.

  And now she had so, whatever the circumstances, Gemma welcomed her warmly.

  ‘Aisha, it is good to see you. Are the pains bad? Have you been able to time them?’

  Gemma kept talking, hoping her voice would reassure the labouring woman.

  They’d reached the steps and as Gemma wondered how to make the journey up them easy for her patient, a tall, dark stranger appeared at her side.

  ‘Go ahead and hold the door open, I will lift her,’ he ordered, but he spoke with such authority that Gemma not only went ahead and opened the door but continued on into the house, opening a door to the treatment room as well.

  The stranger set his burden down on the examination table but the woman screamed and lunged and would have fallen if the young man accompanying her hadn’t caught her.

  ‘Floor, she wants floor,’ he said.

  That was okay with Gemma. She’d delivered babies on the floor before today, but the young man’s presence was nearly as puzzling as the stranger’s. Somali men, in her experience, were rarely present at their baby’s birth. It was an all-women affair. And surely the beautifully suited, slightly severe-looking man who’d appeared couldn’t be her M.B.—she’d been picturing a doddering octogenarian, not a suave, handsome fashion plate who couldn’t be a day over forty.

  Not that there was time to question either of the men. Squatting on the floor beside Aisha, one arm around her, supporting her, the other on her belly, Gemma felt the strong contractions and although the woman was doing no more than making tiny mewling noises, Gemma knew she must be in agony.

  ‘What’s been happening?’ she asked the young man.

  ‘The women who help, the doula and the other women who promise to help, they say baby die and they walk away from my Aisha. I bring her here.’

  Gemma nodded her approval but her hands were feeling for the baby’s position now, and she was discovering exactly why the women who’d been going to help Aisha had opted out. It was a breech presentation, and the baby was too far down the birth canal for her to try to turn it. The problem was, she reflected as she squatted on the floor seeking the degree of cervical dilatation, that a baby’s bottom didn’t provide as effective a wedge as a head to force the birth canal open and the cervix to dilate.

  ‘You must help her,’ the young man implored. ‘She has suffered too much already, my Aisha. You must get her baby out. It is for the baby she lives.’

  ‘He is not exaggerating,’ the other man, the stranger, said, as if he was tuned into the labouring woman’s thoughts. ‘You must save the baby.’

  Startled by what sounded very like another order, Gemma glanced across at the stranger who was squatting now, for all his immaculate clothing, beside the woman, talking soothingly to her in some language Gemma didn’t understand.

  Somali?

  He caught her eye and said, ‘I will help. I will monitor her pulse and breathing, you do what you have to do.’

  Did he know what she would have to do? Know that freeing the little infant legs before easing them out and delivering the baby would not be comfortable for Aisha?

  ‘We’ll manage,’ she said, her heart in her mouth because she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Fortunately, it wasn’t the first time she’d had to deliver a baby at the centre so she was now prepared with a sterile bundle on hand—everything she’d need, and wrappings for the infant as well. She spread a thick paper mat beneath the woman, who had insisted on squatting as soon as Gemma had finished the examination. But squatting wasn’t going to work, so Gemma, with the stranger’s help, eased her backwards and administered some local pain relief before making a small incision. After that it was a straightforward breech delivery, feeling for a leg and releasing it, then another scrawny leg, gentle pressure until the buttocks were revealed, a slight turn of the shoulder, her finger finding the baby’s mouth to keep its head in position for the final push.

  And through it all the two men talked to a
nd encouraged the woman, who still made no more fuss than the occasional mew of discomfort.

  Gemma suctioned the tiny boy and as he gave his first cry, she handed him to his father, who pressed the little one against his wife’s chest, the umbilical cord still trailing.

  Gemma smiled at the picture, her heart as always gladdened by the miracle of birth, especially gladdened by this one. Here were two young people starting a new life in a strange land—and now they had a child to enrich their future.

  ‘Do you want to cut the cord?’ she asked the young man.

  ‘Do Australian men do that?’ he asked, amazement widening his shining black eyes.

  ‘A lot of them do,’ she said, but when Gemma handed him the scissors, Aisha cried out in protest, then spoke urgently in her language.

  ‘Let me handle this,’ the stranger said, and something in his voice made Gemma turn her attention to the baby, wrapping a cloth around him as she lay against his mother’s breast.

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ Gemma told her, hoping her smile would translate the words. ‘Truly beautiful.’

  With the final stage of delivery finished, Gemma cleaned up her patient then left the little family on the floor of the treatment room, nodding her head towards the door so the stranger followed.

  ‘They need time alone and I need time to figure out what to do next,’ she explained. Then she looked at him—really looked. Stared, in fact, at mesmeric black eyes set in a swarthy skin, dark eyebrows arched across the obsidian eyes, while his nose was finely boned, leading the gaze down towards lips rimmed in paler skin, not too full but suggesting a sensuality that made her skin tingle.

  Skin tingle? It must be because she’d been nervous about the visit that she was reacting this way!

  ‘Mr Akkedi? I’m assuming that’s who you are?’

  He moved his head in such an infinitesimal nod that if she hadn’t been staring at him she wouldn’t have noticed.

  ‘I’m sorry not to greet you properly. Even now, I can’t really spend time with you. Aisha should be in hospital, or at least somewhere she and the baby can be cared for. I need to get hold of our translator as she’ll know—’

  ‘Can you not even pause to be pleased with the wonder of birth? To enjoy the achievement of delivering a healthy baby?’

  It wasn’t exactly criticism but it felt like it to Gemma.

  ‘How can I be pleased,’ she protested, ‘when she risked so much? And when she has suffered unnecessarily? Somehow we must learn to overcome the fears some women have about visiting doctors, we must do better—’

  She broke off, shook her head at her own regrets, and smiled at him.

  ‘Of course I should pause,’ she admitted, ‘for surely the birth of a child is a reaffirmation of all that is good in humanity, no matter what has gone before.’

  Yusef stared at her—at the smile that had transformed her face. She was a mess, this woman with the wild red hair escaping from the bounds of a scarf, clad in a faded T-shirt and jeans worn by age rather than fashion. Shadows of tiredness lay dark beneath her pale green eyes, almost translucent, like the new spring leaves on the almond trees at home. Yet her smile made her face come alive, as if all the tiny golden freckles on her skin were sparking with electricity, causing a glow.

  Was he mad? Standing in this shabby house, staring at a woman, when so much work awaited him at home? He had to talk to her, professionally. Had to explain his plans.

  Not that he could when she was obviously still thinking of the couple and their baby. Her smile faded and worry etched lines in her forehead.

  ‘Surely time, and perhaps the experience of those like Aisha, will overcome those fears,’ he said, wanting to see Gemma Murray smile again.

  ‘I keep hoping that’s the case,’ she said.

  Yusef nodded, although the doubt in her voice puzzled him. Everything he had learned about this woman and the centre she had set up built a picture of someone who really cared not only about her patients but about treating them with respect for their culture and heritage. As for fear, how could she think the patients might fear her when he had seen at first hand her kindness to the young couple, her empathy and understanding as she’d delivered their child?

  He watched her cross the hall, her mind no doubt on her patient, but as she passed the front door it opened and another young woman, also from her looks Somali, came bursting in.

  ‘Aisha?’ she asked, and Gemma Murray, for although introductions hadn’t been completed Yusef knew it must be her, replied.

  ‘Sahra, I was about to call you. Aisha’s in there,’ she said, pointing to the room, ‘with her husband and new son. Will you talk to them, Sahra, and sort out what’s best to do for both of them now? This is Mr Akkedi, our benefactor. I have to talk to him but I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’

  She led the way towards the back of the house and Yusef followed her, then looked with distaste at the collection of old chairs that surrounded an equally old Formica table.

  ‘You do not use the money for some decent furniture?’ he asked, then realised his mistake for the woman had turned back towards him with a frown.

  ‘New tables and chairs for the kitchen or an ultrasound machine—there’s no choice, you know. Actually, a new table and chairs would cost much less but there’s always something more important. Would you like a coffee?’

  He glanced at the tin of instant coffee on the kitchen bench and gave an inward shudder, although he’d drunk the same brand when he’d been working in Africa, and had survived.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  A man who only drank real coffee, Gemma surmised. He was reminding her more and more of her grandfather! Well, that was too bad! She put on the kettle, explaining as she did so that she needed caffeine, and needed it now!

  ‘The young woman, Aisha, was a patient?’ the man asked, and she sighed, poured boiling water over the coffee powder, added sugar and sat down.

  ‘Aisha came to us early in her pregnancy. She knew her delivery might be difficult and we discussed all options, including Caesarean.’

  She took a sip of coffee and risked another look at the man, who was now sitting cautiously on the edge of a chair across the table from her. A table without mock orange flowers to brighten it or perfume the room.

  ‘You spoke to her in her own language. Do you know Somalia?’ she asked him, thinking she might have less to explain if he’d been in the country.

  ‘I worked there in a refugee camp for some years,’ he said, surprising her so much the coffee went down the wrong way and she coughed and snorted.

  ‘I am dressed for business today,’ he said, ultra-cool but reading the cause of her surprise with ease. ‘Neither should you judge by appearances!’

  ‘Of course,’ Gemma managed realising she’d been put firmly in her place. ‘But I asked because I wondered if you knew much of their customs and beliefs, which obviously you would. Perhaps not the women, though. They want big families, many children…’

  ‘And they worry that a Caesar will prevent them having as many as they want?’

  Gemma nodded.

  ‘Not all of them, but some. Perhaps that’s why I’ve seen little of Aisha lately, why I feel I’ve failed her.’

  ‘She came to you when she needed help, that is not failure.’ He sounded so stern she had to look at him again, although she’d been trying to avoid doing that, as looking at him was causing some very strange reactions in her body.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Of course so. You cannot make patients come to you!’

  ‘You know this?’

  ‘I am a surgeon—or was a surgeon. Working with refugees, you try to help wherever you can and whoever you can, but you cannot help those who do not wish to be helped.’

  The dark eyes held shadows of pain so deep Gemma wondered just what horrors he must have seen, but every instinct told her he was a very private man and she shouldn’t—couldn’t—pry.

  ‘Is it because of your work with the ref
ugees that you have put so much money into our centre?’

  ‘That, and other reasons,’ he said, his voice suggesting he was still lost in memory.

  Fortunately, Sahra appeared at that moment.

  ‘I will take Aisha and her baby home to my place. My mother will take care of them both and if they are there and either of them have problems I will take them to the hospital.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Gemma told her, then turned to her visitor. ‘This is Sahra. She, too, is from Somalia but has been here longer, going to school then university and getting her nursing and specialist midwifery qualifications, so as well as translating for those of us who find it hard to learn the language, she understands the best ways to help the women.’

  The stranger stood up and held out his hand.

  ‘Sheikh Yusef Akkedi,’ he said, and to Gemma’s amazement, the usually undemonstrative Sahra simply took his hand, sank low into a curtsey and kissed his fingers.

  ‘But you are famous, Your Highness,’ she said, still on her knees. ‘My family get papers from home, we read of you and see your name, learn of your elevation to be the leader of your country. I did not recognise you immediately—you have no beard now.’

  She released his hand and put her own hand to her cheek, then, even through her dark skin, Gemma saw her blush as the visitor helped her to her feet.

  ‘I am honoured to have met you,’ Sahra added, then hurried out the door, almost falling over herself in her confusion.

  Confusion resounded in Gemma’s mind and body.

  ‘I’d better check on the couple and the baby but I’ll be right back,’ she told the man—a sheikh? A highness?

  She’d heard of the incredible wealth of sheikhs, but Sahra curtseying like that—is that how she should have been treating him?

  Gemma followed Sahra, needing time to sort out why this man’s status should come as such a shock to her. Surely she wasn’t worried about who donated money. It didn’t matter as long as the centre could continue its work.