The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum

‘So tell me about Najme,’ she said, a smile still lingering on her lips and what sounded like genuine interest in her voice.

He seized the opportunity with both hands. Talking about Najme, his favourite place on earth, was easy.

And it would prevent him thinking about his companion and the way she affected him—especially the way she’d affected him when he’d caught her in his arms …

‘Najme means star. It has always been considered the star of the south because of the beauty of the oasis on which it is built. Date palms flourish there, and grass and ferns, while reeds thrive by the water’s edge. When oil was discovered, because Al Jabaya was a port from ancient times, used for trading vessels and the pearling fleet, it seemed right that the capital should be built there. So my brother and his advisors laid out plans and the city grew, but it virtually consumed all his time, and the south was not exactly neglected but left behind. Now it is up to me to bring this area into the twenty-first century, but I must do it with caution and sensitivity.’

He looked out the window as the sleek vehicle glided along a motorway, seeing houses, streets, shops and factories flash by. It was the sensitivity that worried him, bringing change without changing the values and heritage of his people.

It was because of the sensitivity he’d married Zara, a young woman of the south, hoping her presence by his side would make his changes more acceptable.

And then he’d let her down …

‘Is the hospital your first project there?’ his colleague asked. Pleased to be diverted, he explained how his brother had seen to the building of better housing, and schools right across the country, and had provided free medical care at clinics for the people in the south, but he had deemed the hospital in Al Jabaya to be sufficient for the country, even providing medical helicopters to fly people there.

‘But the people of Najme, all the people of the south, have always been wary of the northerners. The southern regions were home to tribes of nomads who guarded trade routes and traded with the travellers, providing fresh food and water, while Al Jabaya has always been settled. The Al Jabayans were sailors, pearl divers and also traders, but their trade has been by sea, so they have always been in contact with people of other lands. They are more … worldly, I suppose you would say.’

‘And you?’

The question was gentle, as if she sensed the emotion he felt when talking of his people.

‘My mother was from the south. My brother’s mother was from the north, so when she grew old, my father took a second wife—actually, I think she was the third but that’s not talked of often. Anyway, for political reasons he took a wife from a southern tribe, so my ties are to the south. My wife, too, was a southerner …’

He stopped, aware he’d spoken to no one about Zara since her death, and none of his friends had used her name—aware, no doubt, that it was a subject he wouldn’t discuss.

‘Your wife,’ Liz Jones prompted, even gentler now.

‘She died in childbirth. The baby was premature, and she, too, died.’

Liz heard the agony in his voice, and nothing on this earth could have prevented her resting her hand on his.

‘So of course you want the unit. It will be the very best we can achieve.’ She squeezed his fingers, just a comforting pressure. ‘I know it won’t bring back your wife or child, but I promise you it will be a fitting memorial to them and be something you’ll be proud of.’

Then, feeling utterly stupid, she removed her hand and tucked it in her lap lest it be tempted to touch him again.

This time the silence between them went beyond awkward and, aware she’d overstepped a boundary of some kind, Liz had no idea how to ease the tension. She leaned forward, intending to take a drink from the cabinet—but as she’d already pointed out, spilling fizzy orange soda all over the seat and undoubtedly splashing her new boss probably wasn’t the answer.

Instead, she pulled one of the information leaflets he’d given her from her capacious handbag and settled back into the corner to read it. If he wanted the silence broken, let him break it.

He didn’t, and, determined not to start blithering again, she refused to comment when the car sailed past the wide road that led to the international air terminal. Sailed past the road to the domestic one as well, then turned into another road that led to high wire fences and a gate guarded by a man in a security uniform.

To Liz’s surprise, the man at the gate saluted as the gates swung open, and the limo took them out across wide tarmac to stop beside a very large plane, its sleek lines emphasised by the streaks and swirls of black and gold paint on its side. It took her a moment to recognise the decoration as Arabic script and she could be silent no longer.

‘What does it say?’ she asked, totally enthralled by the flowing lines, the curves and squiggles.

‘Najme,’ her host replied, and before she could ask more, he was out of the limo and speaking to some kind of official who waited at the bottom of the steps.

The driver opened the door on Liz’s side and she slid out, not as elegantly as her companion had but, thankfully, without falling flat on her face.

‘This gentleman will stamp your passport and one of my pilots will check your luggage,’ Khalifa told her, all business now. ‘It is a precaution he has to take, I’m sure you understand.’

Totally out of her depth, Liz just nodded, grateful really that she had no decisions to make. She handed over her passport, then hovered near the bottom of the steps until a young man came down and invited her inside.

‘Khalifa will bring your passport and the pilot will put your luggage on board,’ he told her. ‘I am Saif, Khalifa’s assistant. On flights I act as steward. He prefers not to have strangers around.’

Liz smiled to herself, certain the young man had no idea just how much he’d told her about his master. But there was no time to dwell on these little details for she’d reached the top of the steps, and entered what seemed like another world.

There was nothing flashy about the interior of the plane, just opulent comfort, with wide, well-padded armchairs in off-white leather, colourful cushions stacked on them, and more, larger, flat cushions on the floor near the walls of the aircraft. A faint perfume hung in the air, something she couldn’t place—too delicate to be musk, more roses with a hint of citrus.

‘Sit here,’ Saif said, then he waited until she sank obediently into one of the armchairs before showing her where the seat belt was and how a small table swung out from beside the chair and a monitor screen opened up on it.

‘You will find a list of the movies and other programmes in the book in the pocket on the other side of the chair, and you can use your laptop once we’re in the air. Press this button if there’s anything you require and I will do my best to help you.’

Saif turned away, and Liz realised Khalifa had entered the plane. He came towards her, enquired politely about her comfort, handed back her passport then took the chair on the other side of the plane.

‘All this space to carry two people?’ she asked, unable to stop herself revealing her wonder in the experience.

‘It can be transformed into many configurations,’ Khalifa replied. ‘The flight time is fifteen hours, and I thought you might be more comfortable in a bed, so the back of the cabin is set up for your convenience.’

‘With a bed?’

It went beyond Scheherazade’s fantastic stories, and now Liz forgot about hiding her wonder.

‘I’ve read about executive jets, but never thought I’d experience anything like this. May I have a look?’

Was it the excitement in her voice that stirred the man? She had no idea, but at least he’d smiled, and as she felt a slight hitch in her breathing, she told herself it was better that he remained remote and unreachable—far better that he didn’t smile.

‘Wait until we’re in the air. The aircraft door is closed and I assume the pilot is preparing for take-off. Because we have to compete with both the international and the domestic flights for take-off slots, we can’t delay. But while we’re on the ground, Saif could get you a drink. Perhaps champagne to celebrate your first flight in an executive jet?’

‘I can celebrate with orange juice,’ Liz said, and although Khalifa was sure he saw her right hand move towards her stomach, she drew back before she touched it. The mystery of her pregnancy—or her attitude to it—deepened. He’d seen a lot of Liz Jones in the last ten days, and not by even the slightest sign had she acknowledged the baby she carried.

Neither had she ever mentioned the baby’s father, and although he had a totally irrational desire to know about this unknown man, he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Oh, he’d thought of a dozen ways he could bring it up. Does the baby’s father not mind your leaving now? If you’re still in my country, would the baby’s father like to fly to Al Tinine for the birth?

But every time he thought of a question, he told himself it was none of his business and quashed the desire to ask.

And it was none of his business, apart from the fact that the woman was coming to work for him and he’d have liked to know what made her tick. Having seen her in action in the Giles neonatal unit, he knew she was deeply involved with all her little charges, and genuinely caring, which made her apparent detachment from her own pregnancy all the more puzzling.

An enigma, that’s what she was.

Saif had returned with freshly squeezed orange juice for them both and she smiled as she thanked him—smiled the kind of smile he’d seen her use around the unit, the smile she gave the other staff, the parents and the babies.

And just as irrationally as his desire to know about her baby’s father came the thought that he’d like her to smile like that at him …

She’d pulled some papers out of the bag she’d carried on board, and as she sipped her juice she was studying them.

In order to avoid conversation?