Sheikh, Children's Doctor...Husband Read online

  No, happy was definitely the wrong word, but life could begin to return to normal—a new normal, but still…

  ‘So?’

  The word came out like a demand, unintended, but she was disturbing him in ways he couldn’t understand. So quiet, so shadowy.

  Insidious?

  But if his mother needed someone to keep an eye on her, which she obviously did, then this woman…

  ‘I suppose it’s up to you,’ she said. ‘But I won’t leave Samarah without competent care. Is there someone else who could keep an eye on her until her niece returns?’

  Alex wanted to suggest he do it himself, despite Samarah’s protestations, but there was something forbidding in the stern features of this man.

  And what features! They drew her mesmerised gaze as a magnet drew iron filings—the high sculpted cheekbones, the deep-set eyes, the slightly hooked nose—a face that looked as if the desert winds she’d heard of had scoured it clean so the bones stood out in stark relief.

  Hard as weathered rock…

  She was still cataloguing his features when he replied so she missed the early part of his sentence.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ She was so embarrassed by her distraction the words stumbled out and seemed to drop like stones onto the carpet where Azzam was pacing.

  ‘I asked if you feel my mother should stay on preventative medication now she has returned home.’

  Was it suspicion she could hear in his voice? Was that the note bothering her?

  Or was it pain? He’d lost his brother, his twin—his world had been turned upside down…

  Realising she should be speaking, not thinking, and relieved to have an easy question to answer, Alex now hurried her reply.

  ‘Probably not in the long term, but for a while perhaps it would be best if she continued to take leukotriene modifiers. I’ve been monitoring her lung capacity with a peak-flow meter daily and prescribing preventative medication as needed, but she is reluctant to use the meter herself and to take control of the illness.’

  To her astonishment, the man smiled. Smiled properly, not just a lip quirk. And it was a smile worth waiting for, because it lip up his stern face the way sunrise lit the highest peaks of a cold mountain.

  Alex gave a little shake of her head, unable to believe the way her mind—not to mention the fluttering thing inside her chest—had reacted! Sunrise on a mountain indeed! She was losing it!

  Tiredness, that was all!

  She looked at a point a little above his right shoulder so she didn’t have to see his face again, and concentrated on his words.

  ‘You are asking her to do something against what, she believes, is meant to be. She would see, and accept, her illness as the will of God. Can you understand that?’

  Alex nodded, then, for all her determination not to even look at him, she found herself returning his smile as understanding of Samarah’s opposition became clear.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I did wonder why she was so adamant about it, but if she feels that way, of course she doesn’t want to interfere in what she feels should be beyond her control. Can you persuade her? Could you convince her that she is better off taking mild medication than having to take the really heavy-duty stuff when she has an attack?’

  His smile had slipped away, and he looked darkly grave, as if, in his mind, he’d slipped away, and to a not-very-happy place.

  ‘My brother could have,’ he said quietly, and this time she heard the pain distinctly. ‘My brother could have charmed the birds from the trees so my mother was easy work for him.’

  He paused, looking out over the delights of the garden courtyard, and Alex imagined she could feel his pain, throbbing in the air between them.

  ‘I will try,’ he said, ‘and in the meantime you will stay, care for her, until Maya, her niece, returns?’

  Although the invitation sounded forced, as if the man felt he had no alternative but to ask, Alex’s immediate reaction was to agree, for she’d grown very fond of Samarah and certainly wouldn’t leave her without competent medical support, particularly while she was grieving for her son. But money, something Alex had never thought she’d have to worry about, reared its ugly avaricious head, and she hesitated.

  As the full extent of Rob’s indebtedness had became obvious, she’d promised her dying mother she’d repay his debts, clearing the family’s name and restoring its honour, but beyond that promise was the fact that her sister-in-law, unable to work herself because of her daughter’s special needs, was relying on her. No way could Alex let these much-loved people down.

  An image of the money-lender’s henchman rose up in her mind, clashing with memories of the promise. She’d met him only once and that had been enough. There was no way she could allow that man to terrorise her sister-in-law or her frail little niece.

  Alex drew in a deep breath. It was useless. No breath could be deep enough for what she was about to ask, so she blurted out the words she hated having to say.

  ‘I can stay. I’d be happy to, but personal reasons mean that I can’t stay unless—’

  She balked! She couldn’t do it!

  ‘Unless?’ he prompted, and she knew the coldness and suspicion she’d imagined she’d heard earlier had returned to his voice.

  She stood up and did a little pace of her own around the carpet, avoiding the man who now stood close to the steps that led into the garden.

  ‘Look, this is an embarrassing thing to have to ask and I am ashamed to have to ask it, but if I stay, could I talk to you about some wages? Originally it was just to be two days—fly over with Samarah and fly back—then the stopover and now her niece isn’t here to take over… We’d become friends, Samarah and I, and I was happy to be able to help, but I’ve this obligation—money that is paid out of my bank account regularly—and if I’m not working, not earning, if the money’s not there—’

  He cut her off with a wave of his hand, an abrupt movement that seemed to ward her off, although she was back on the settee now, embarrassed—no, utterly humiliated—by having to discuss money with a stranger.

  ‘Money!’ he snapped. ‘Of course there’ll be money. Do not worry, Dr Conroy, you will be well paid!’

  He stalked away, his white robe swirling around him, and what felt like disgust trailing in his wake.

  Not that Alex could blame him—she was pretty disgusted herself, but what else could she have done?

  Anger pushed Azzam away from the woman. No, not anger so much as an irritated discomfort. At himself for not realising she wasn’t being paid? No, the sensation seemed to have been triggered by the fact that she’d been so obviously uncomfortable at having to discuss it.

  By the fact he’d made her uncomfortable?

  Of course she should be paid, he’d arrange it immediately. Yet as her words replayed in his head he heard the strain behind them, particularly when she’d said ‘obligation’. Now more questions arose. If the money for this obligation was paid automatically from her bank account, what good would cash be to her here?

  He wheeled round, returning to find she’d walked into the garden and was moving from one rose bush to the next, smelling the blooms. The rose she held to her face now was crimson, and it brushed a little colour into her cheeks. For a moment he weakened—his irritation slipping slightly—because there was something special about the sight of that slim, jeans-clad woman standing among the roses.

  ‘You might give your serving woman your bank details. If, as you say, payments are taken regularly from your account, it is best I transfer the money direct into it rather than give you cash.’

  ‘If, as I say?’ she retorted, stepping away from the crimson rose and facing him, anger firing the silvery eyes. ‘Do you think I’d lie to you? Or are you just trying to humiliate me further? Do you think that asking a stranger for wages wasn’t humiliating enough for me? Do you think I wouldn’t care for Samarah out of fondness and compassion if I didn’t have financial obligations? Believe me, if I’d had an alternative, I’d have taken
it.’

  She stormed away, her body rigid with the force of her anger as she slapped her feet against the paving stones.

  There’d been a ring of truth in her words, and the anger seemed genuine, and for a moment he regretted upsetting her. But Bahir’s death had brought back too many reminders of Clarice’s arrival in their midst, and suspicion was a bitter seed that flourished in pain and grief.

  She shouldn’t have asked, Alex told herself as, on shaking legs, she escaped the man.

  She should have told him she had to leave immediately!

  But how could she leave the gentle Samarah when she was grieving and ill? How could she, Alex, just walk away from a woman she’d come to admire and respect?

  She’d had to ask, she reminded herself, so she may as well stop getting her knickers in a twist over it. So what if the man thought she was a mercenary female?

  She kicked off her shoes with such force one of them flew across the paving, disturbing the neat rows of sandals already there. Muttering to herself, she squatted down to restore them all to order and it was there Samarah found her.

  ‘You will eat with us this evening?’ she asked in her quiet, barely accented English. ‘I am afraid we have neglected you shamefully, but I was tired from the flight and slept until late in the day. In our country we pride ourselves on our hospitality. It comes from the time of our nomad ancestors, when to turn someone away from a camp in the desert might be to send them to their death.’

  ‘I would be honoured to eat with you,’ Alex told her, standing up and studying Samarah’s face, then watching her chest to check it was moving without strain. ‘You are feeling all right?’

  Samarah inclined her head then gave it a little shake.

  ‘Hardly all right when my first-born is dead, but it is not the asthma that affects me. Only grief.’

  She reached out and took Alex’s hands.

  ‘That you will understand for I read grief in your face as well. It is not so long since you lost someone?’

  Alex turned away so she wouldn’t reveal the tears that filled her eyes. It was tiredness that had weakened her so much that a few kind words from Samarah should make her want to cry. Weakness was a luxury she couldn’t afford—like the pride that was still eating into her bones over her request for wages.

  Samarah took her hand and led her into the building.

  ‘I know I gave you little time to pack, but you will find clothes in the dressing room next to your bedroom and toiletries in the bathroom. We will eat in an hour. Hafa will show you the way.’

  Alex thanked Samarah and followed Hafa, who had appeared silently in front of them, back to the splendid bedroom.

  Clothes in the dressing room?

  Alex looked down at her serviceable jeans and checked shirt, then caught up with her guide.

  ‘Samarah mentioned clothes,’ she said to Hafa. ‘Are my clothes not suitable here?’

  Hafa smiled at her.

  ‘Because you are a foreigner no shame attaches to you, but I think Samarah has chosen clothes especially for you—a gift because she likes you—and she would be pleased to see you wear these things.’

  ‘Very diplomatically put,’ Alex responded, smiling at the woman, worry over her request to the ‘new highness’ pushed aside by the kindness of the women she was meeting.

  Not to mention the thought of a shower and getting into clean clothes. Packing in a hurry, she’d grabbed her passport, a small travel pack, underwear and two clean shirts, thinking her jeans would do until she returned home. At the time, all she’d intended doing was accompanying Samarah home, but the older woman’s asthma attack on the flight had frightened both of them, and Alex had realised she couldn’t leave.

  So she’d have to send her bank details to the prince, though her stomach twisted at the thought, and she felt ill remembering the contempt she’d seen in his eyes.

  The same contempt she’d seen in David’s eyes when she’d told him about Rob’s debt and offered him back her engagement ring, certain in her heart he wouldn’t take it—certain of a love he’d probably, in retrospect, never felt for her.

  His acceptance of it had cut her deeply—the one man she’d been relying on for support backing away from her so quickly she’d felt tainted, unclean in some way.

  But David was in the past and she had more than enough problems in the present to occupy her mind.

  Inside her room, fearing she’d lose the courage to do it if she hesitated, she dug a notebook out of her handbag and scribbled down the information the prince would need to transfer the money. At the bottom she added, ‘Thank you for doing this. I am sorry I had to ask.’

  ‘This note needs to go to the prince,’ she told Hafa, who took it and walked, soft-footed, out of the room, the roiling in Alex’s stomach growing worse by the moment.

  Forget it. Have a shower.

  The thought brought a glimmer of a smile to her face and she pushed away all her doubts and worries. If the bedroom was like something out of the Arabian Nights then the bathroom was like something from images of the future. All stainless steel and glass and gleaming white marble, toiletries of every kind stacked on the glass shelving and a shower that sprayed water all over her body, massaging it with an intensity that had been delicious after the long flight.

  She stripped off, undid her plait and brushed it out, deciding to try some of the array of shampoos that lined the shelves and wash her hair. The shampoo she chose had a perfume she didn’t recognise, yet as she dried her hair she realised she’d smelt the same scent here and there around the palace, as if the carpets or tapestries were permeated with it.

  She sniffed the air, liking it and trying to capture what it was that attracted her.

  ‘It’s frankincense,’ Hafa told her when Alex asked about the scent. Frankincense—one of the gifts carried by the wise men! Again the unreality of the situation hit her—this was truly a strange and fascinating place.

  By this time she was showered and dressed, in long dark blue trousers and a matching tunic top—the least noticeable set of clothing she’d found among an array of glittering clothes in the dressing room—and Hafa had returned to take her to dinner.

  ‘I’ve heard of it, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever smelt it,’ Alex said, and Hafa smiled.

  ‘It is special to us,’ she replied, but didn’t explain any more than that, simply leading Alex out of the suite of rooms and along new corridors.

  What seemed like a hundred women were gathered in a huge room, most of them seated on carpets on the floor, a great swathe of material spread across the floor in front of them, the material loaded with silver and brass platters piled high with fruit and nuts.

  Hafa led Alex to where Samarah sat at what would be the head if there were a table. Samarah waved her to sit down beside her, greeting Alex with a light touch of her hands, clasping both of Alex’s hands together.

  ‘Tomorrow we will bury my son, my Bahir,’ Samarah told her, her voice still hoarse with the tears she must have shed in private. ‘You would feel out of place in the traditional ceremony so Hafa will look after you, but tonight we celebrate his existence—his life—and for this you must join us.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ Alex told her, and she meant it, for although she’d only known Samarah a short time, she’d heard many tales about this beloved son.

  Serving women brought in more silver plates, placing one in front of each of the seated women, then huge steaming bowls of rice, vegetables and meat appeared, so many dishes Alex could only shake her head. Samarah served her a little from each dish, urging her to eat, using bread instead of cutlery.

  ‘We do eat Western style with knives and forks as you do,’ she explained, ‘but tonight is about tradition.’

  And as the meal progressed and the women began to talk, their words translated quietly by a young woman on Alex’s other side, she realised how good such a custom was, for Bahir was remembered with laughter and joy, silly pranks he’d played as a boy, mistakes he
’d made as a teenager, kindnesses he’d done to many people.

  It was as if they talked to imprint the memories of him more firmly in their heads, so he wouldn’t ever be really lost to them, Alex decided as she wandered through the rose garden when the meal had finished.

  She’d eaten too much to go straight to bed, and the garden with its perfumed beauty had called to her. Now, as she walked among the roses she thought of Rob, and the bitterness she’d felt towards him since he’d taken his own life drained away. At the time she’d felt guilt as well as anger about his desperate act. She’d known he was convinced that finding out the extent of his indebtedness had hastened their mother’s death from cancer, but Alex had been too shocked by the extent of the debt and too devastated by David’s desertion to do more to support her brother.

  Forget David—subsequent knowledge had proved he wasn’t worth being heartsick over—but now, among the roses, she found she could think of Rob, remembering rather than regretting. Here, in this peaceful, beautiful place, she began to reconstruct her brother in her mind, remembering their childhood, the tears and laughter they had shared. Here, among the roses, she remembered Rob’s ability to make their mother laugh, even when the burden of bringing up two children on her own had become almost too heavy for her to bear.

  ‘Oh, Rob,’ she whispered to the roses, and suddenly it didn’t matter that she’d had to ask the prince for money. She was doing it for Rob, and for the wife and daughter he’d so loved—doing it for the boy who’d shared her childhood, and had made their mother laugh…

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE last person Azzam expected to find in the rose garden was the stranger, but there she was, tonight a dark shadow in the moonlight, for her fair hair was hidden by a scarf. He watched her touching rose petals with her fingertips, brushing the backs of her hands against the blooms, apparently talking to herself for he could see her lips moving.

  He stepped backwards, not wanting her to see him—not wanting to have to talk to anyone—but fate decreed he missed the path, his sandal crunching on the gravel so the woman straightened and whipped round, seeming to shrink back as she caught sight of him.