The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum

A pregnant woman in high-heeled strappy sandals?

A doctor at work in high-heeled strappy sandals?

Not that her legs didn’t look fantastic in them …

What was he thinking!

It was the pregnancy thing that had thrown him. Too close to home—too many memories surfacing. If only he’d been more involved with Zara and the pregnancy, if only he’d been home more often, if only …

‘Here,’ his guide declared, walking into the leafy courtyard hung with glorious flowering orchids. ‘This, as you can see, is a special place. Mr Giles, who left the bequest for the hospital, was a passionate orchid grower and these orchids are either survivors from his collection or have been bred from his plants.’

Khalifa looked around, then shook his head.

‘I did notice the courtyard on one of my tours of the hospital, but didn’t come into it. It’s like an oasis of peace and beauty in a place that is very busy and often, I imagine, very sombre. I should have thought of something similar. I have been considering practicality too much.’

His companion smiled at him.

‘Just don’t take space out of my unit to arrange a courtyard,’ she warned. ‘Now, would you like tea or coffee, or perhaps a cold drink?’

‘Let me get it, Dr Jones,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. ‘You’ll have …?’

‘I’m limiting myself to one coffee a day so I make it a good one. Coffee, black and strong and two sugars, and it’s Liz,’ she replied, confusing him once again.

‘Liz?’ he repeated.

‘Short for Elizabeth—Liz, not Dr Jones.’

He turned away to buy the coffees, his mind repeating the short name, while some primitive instinct sprang to life inside him, warning him of something …

But what?

‘Two coffees, please. Strong, black and two sugars in both of them.’

He gave his order, and paid the money, but his mind was trying to grasp at the fleeting sensation that had tapped him on the shoulder.

Because of their nomadic lifestyle in an often hostile country, an instinct for danger was bred into him and all his tribal people, but this woman couldn’t represent a danger, so that couldn’t be it.

But as he took the coffees from the barista, the sensation came again.

It couldn’t be because they drank their coffee the same way! Superstition might be alive and well in his homeland, but he’d never believed in any of the tales his people told of mischievous djinns interfering in people’s lives, or of a conflagration of events foretelling disaster. Well, not entirely! And a lot of people probably drank their coffee strong and black with two sugars.

Besides, he only drank it this way when he was away from home. At home, the coffee was already sweet and he’d drink three tiny cups of the thick brew in place of one of these …

CHAPTER TWO

COULD ten days really have flown so quickly?

Of course, deciding on what clothes she should take had consumed a lot of Liz’s spare time. Khalifa … could she really call him that? So far she’d avoided using his name directly, but if she was going to be working with him she’d have to use it some time.

Not that she didn’t use it in her head, sounding it out, but only in rare moments of weakness, for even saying it started the toe curling—and she had to stretch them as hard as she could to prevent it happening.

Anyway, Khalifa had given her a pile of wonderful information brochures about his country, explaining that the capital, Al Jabaya, was in the north, and that his eldest brother, while he had been the leader, had, over twenty years, built a modern city there. The southern part of Al Tinine, however, was known as the Endless Desert, and the area, although well populated, had been neglected. It was in the south, in the oasis town of Najme, that Khalifa had built his hospital.

For clothes Liz had settled on loose trousers and long shift-like shirts for work, and long loose dresses for casual occasions or lolling around at home, wherever home turned out to be. Wanting to respect the local customs, she’d made sure all the garments were modest, with sleeves and high necklines.

Now here she was, in a long, shapeless black dress—black so it wouldn’t show the things she was sure to spill on herself on a flight—waiting outside her apartment block just as the sun was coming up. Gillian, who would house—and cat-sit, waited beside her.

‘Your coach approaches, Cinderella,’ Gillian said, as a sleek black limousine turned into the street.

‘Wrong fairy-tale, Gill,’ Liz retorted. ‘Mine’s the one with Scheherazade telling the Sultan story after story so she didn’t get her head chopped off next morning.’

Had she sounded panicked that Gill looked at her with alarm?

‘You’re not worrying now about this trip, are you? Haven’t you left it a bit late? What’s happened? You’ve been so, well, not excited but alive again.’

The vehicle pulled up in front of them before Liz could explain that sheer adrenalin had carried her this far, but now she was about to depart, she wasn’t having second thoughts but third and fourth and fifth right down to a thousandth.

Better not to worry Gill with that!

‘I’m fine,’ she said, then felt her toes curl and, yes, he was there, stepping smoothly out of the rear of the monstrous car just as she tripped on the gutter and all but flung herself into his arms.

He was quick, she had to give him that—catching her elbow first then looping an arm around her waist to steady her.

She’d have been better off falling, she decided as her body went into some kind of riotous reaction that was very hard to put down to relief that she hadn’t fallen!

‘You must look where you are going,’ he said, but although the words came out as an order, his voice was gruff with what sounded like concern.

For her?

How could she know?

And did it really matter?

The driver, meanwhile, had picked up her small case and deposited it in the cavernous trunk so there was nothing else for Liz to do but give Gill a quick kiss goodbye and step into the vehicle.

In the back.

With Khalifa.

‘Wow, look at the space in here. I’ve never been in a limo!’ she said, while her head reminded her that it had been years since she’d talked like a very young teenager. Perhaps she was better saying nothing.

‘Would you like a drink? A cold soda of some kind?’

Khalifa had opened a small cabinet, revealing an array of beverages. The sight of them, and the bottles of wine and champagne—this at six-thirty in the morning—delighted Liz so much she relaxed and even found a laugh.

‘You’re talking to a klutz, remember. I can just imagine the damage a fizzy orange drink could do to this upholstery. Besides, I’ve just had my coffee fix so I should manage an hour’s drive to the airport without needing further refreshment.’

It was the laugh that surprised him every time, Khalifa realised. He hadn’t heard it often in the last ten days but every time it caught his attention and he had to stop himself from staring at his new employee, her face transformed to a radiant kind of beauty by her delight in something. Usually something absurd.