Challenging the Doctor Sheikh Page 9

  If she hadn’t wanted to kiss him before... Her gaze drifted to his mouth.

  One of them had to go before she threw herself at him.

  * * *

  Staying away for a week had been hard. Dakan’s mood had been so black prior to today that Bashir—his father’s aide—had constantly sent the attar to him to try and get him to drink a potion to help. It wasn’t until today and hearing his first official patient was returning that he’d found something to smile about. Nira’s call had come right when it could make the day good enough to wash away the previous seven.

  He still needed to kiss her and wasn’t keen to examine why just yet. The way she looked at his mouth made the perfect excuse to forget his challenge.

  He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Kiss me, woman, or make a liar of me. I’m pretty damned sure I don’t care any more if you beg or not, just kiss me.”

  The breath that stuttered out of her open mouth sounded like a plea and then like a lament.

  “I can’t.” She shook her head, stepping away, pausing to judge the distance between them, and then moving another meter away. “I’m not going to sleep with you. I can’t do that and then travel around the country with you. Everyone would be able to look at me and see we were lovers. I want to kiss you. I want more than to kiss you, but...could you stop with a kiss tonight?”

  Could he stop at one kiss?

  Dakan watched her chest rise and fall far too rapidly for anything but excitement, fear, or both—considering the situation.

  His mind was made up before he started moving, “Let’s find out.”

  Three short strides and he reached her. She didn’t move away again; she didn’t ask for more assurances or answers. His hand slid into her hair to cradle her head and he pulled her to him.

  His lips touched hers and the fire that had been threatening to eat through his will exploded in his belly, met by an equal hunger in her kiss. She slid her arms free of his waist to wrap them around his shoulders, leaning into him as she held him curled down to meet her, pressing every inch of her body against him that she could.

  Her mouth opened and Dakan took the invitation to take the kiss as deep as he’d been dying to since that first day he’d met her.

  It wasn’t enough.

  He wanted greater contact, to mash himself against her the way her whole body invited him to.

  When his lungs began demanding air he still wasn’t ready to stop. Breaking from the sweet mouth that held him captive, he trailed kisses across her cheek and down the side of her neck, letting his hands roam her body to settle beneath the cheeks of the plump swell of flesh that had jiggled so temptingly at him when he’d caught her working in her pajamas. He squeezed, pulling her hips against his.

  A stuttering breath and a groan preceded the softly whispered, “Stop. We have to stop...”

  He stopped kissing, but didn’t release her yet.

  The urge was there to convince her otherwise, but she said to stop.

  Reluctantly, he let go of her bottom and moved away. The linen trousers, which had seemed so comfortable and casual, now might as well be a spotlight to the effect she had on him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, but made a point of not looking down. “I just can’t.”

  “So you said.” Another deep breath and he got his pulse slowed down, then broke away to head for her desk area. She had plans for him, he’d get those at least before leaving.

  “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  It was the apology he still heard in her voice that helped his frustration subside somewhat, that and the breathless quality that at least confirmed that she was as affected as he was. “No. I’ll take the plans and go home. Let me know about the private wing, and I’ll call you with our itinerary at the end of the week.”

  If he went straight home and into a cold shower, he might be ready to travel by next week. Or he might be wearing the robes for other reasons.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “TAKE THE LUGGAGE to my suite, along with the packages.” The voice of Dakan’s mother rang out from the front entrance, bright and happy.

  They were home.

  Dakan stood immediately and went to greet his parents. Or just his mother. The King was nowhere to be seen. “Welcome home, Mother. Did you have a good holiday?”

  Ever the loving and affectionate parent, she hugged him hard and kissed both of his cheeks. “I had a wonderful holiday. Have you heard from Zahir? How is Adele?”

  “Pregnant,” Dakan answered, keeping an arm around his mother’s shoulders as he steered her toward a settee.

  “Yes, isn’t it wonderful?”

  “It is.” For them. And it would be for his parents and the kingdom as well, just as soon as Dakan got the facilities up to date.

  “Is the architect working on the hospital?”

  Dakan stopped a moment and then nodded. “We’ve had to take small pause with that, but she’s already gotten together plans for the surgery theater to be remodeled and modernized, and she’s finalizing plans for a small wing off that short side of the hospital for family. It will be tight, but the contractor assures me that it’s small enough to have finished by the time Adele delivers. After the plans are approved by her firm, the architect and I are taking a small trip around the kingdom to different healing centers to see how it can be incorporated into the hospital planning.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. You’ve been busy.”

  Staff arrived and summoned them to a late lunch, and over the next hour he listened to his mother gush about the vacation and the different countries they’d visited.

  Tabda Aljann.

  The man in Nira’s picture swam to the front of his mind along with the sudden certainty that he’d seen the man in Tabda Aljann as a child. One of the Al-Haaken family. Jibril? Maybe.

  “Dakan?”

  He forced himself to focus on his mother. “Forgive me, Mother. I got...a little distracted.”

  “Are you feeling all right? The color drained right out of your face. Should I send for the attar?”

  “I don’t need any tonics. I just remembered something.” He fumbled for his phone and then flipped through until he found the photo of Nira’s parents. Maybe it wasn’t him. Mother had probably recently dined with the whole family, so if she knew him—and she’d known that family since she’d turned down their king’s marriage proposal and married Dakan’s father instead—she’d have seen him.

  Damn. Showing his mother the photo might backfire on him and take the Nira situation out of his hands, but his memory wasn’t good enough to proceed alone.

  “Mother, do you recognize this man?” He handed the phone to her. “I know it’s not the best quality.”

  “Oh, yes, this is Prince Jibril. We had dinner with his family when the yacht put in at one of their ports on our cruise. Who is this woman with him?”

  Dakan eased the phone back and turned it off. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he also didn’t want to tell her that the architect was blood kin to the royals in a nearby country. Especially when he knew that dinner his parents had attended would’ve been tense already—things had never been what anyone sane would call friendly since that denied proposal, though they made a show of pretending they were.

  “I don’t know her name,” he admitted.

  “Where did you get the photo?”

  “A friend.” His mother would probably have better advice on how to handle this than anyone else in his family. At least she’d be sympathetic with Nira. Slowly, and minimizing the detail as much as he could, he told his mother the scant story of Nira’s birth.

  “She’ll be very happy when you tell her you’ve found him.”

  “I don’t know if I’m going to tell her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Bec
ause she wants to know so badly she might hop on a jet, march up to the palace and demand to know if he’s her father.”

  “You’re afraid she might leave? Or that she might get hurt?”

  “Both. She’s got a good head for design, works fast and hard. Zahir did well in hiring her. But I’ve come to know her since she’s been here and she could be very easily hurt if he responded in any way other than joy at seeing her. Something tells me he wouldn’t be happy to see her, and neither would King Ahmad. Jibril’s married, isn’t he?”

  “For a long time,” Leila confirmed, then a little more slowly asked, “How old is she?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a few years younger than me.”

  “His eldest son is Zahir’s age.”

  He rubbed his head, an ache stabbing behind one eye suddenly. “I can’t tell her. Not yet. Maybe in a while.”

  “Dakan, if she’s of royal blood, even if she is illegitimate we can’t have her living alone and going about alone in the city. It’s just not acceptable.”

  “She’s not living entirely alone. She’s got a live-in housekeeper and Zahir put guards on her to serve as her escorts.”

  “But she’s still alone. She doesn’t have anyone to look out for her well-being.”

  “She has me,” Dakan said, then immediately regretted it as his mother’s brows shot skyward. “She’s my friend. I’ll keep anything bad from happening to her.”

  “You know that’s not proper. Your father will insist.”

  “Then don’t tell him. We’re going to go visiting some healing centers next week—that will give me some time to ease her into the whole thing.”

  “I won’t lie to him.”

  “You don’t have to lie. You just have to not mention it for a week or so.”

  He didn’t want Nira living at the palace, and that’s exactly what would happen the instant his father heard about this. He needed her in the penthouse, away from here. Somewhere they could be alone, yes, but not just because he lusted after her as if he’d never had a woman in his life. He needed to be alone with her, just talking with her and relaxing. She’d become his sanctuary, his Little London.

  “You care for her.”

  He tried to think of what he could say to explain. His family loved him and he them, but he never truly felt understood when he was home. Which probably had something to do with his difficulty understanding himself sometimes. But Nira seemed to get him. Where words failed him, he simply nodded. “Yes. But don’t go getting ideas.”

  “Who? Me? I have no ideas whatsoever. I’m sure the last idea I had was...in the nineties. And I’m far too tired to have ideas right now.” She stood, bent and kissed the top of his head, and then wandered out of the room. “I think I’ll have a nap. Then I need to get back to planning the party for Zahir and Adele, see where arrangements have been left. But first I’ll send the attar to you with a tonic for your head.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s hurting. You always rub your forehead like that when your head hurts.”

  Maybe she did understand him better than he gave her credit for. She knew that much, at least. “Thank you, Mother. I’m glad you’re home.”

  “Me too,” she called, already out of the room.

  The tour wouldn’t take more than a few days, certainly not the whole week. He had until the last day at the latest to figure out how to tell Nira what he’d learned.

  How did you tell someone they were very likely a royal bastard?

  * * *

  Nira dressed for practicality on the first day of their tour in loose-fitting linen trousers, a long tunic to cover her neck to wrists, and a matching scarf. The scarf still felt important to her. She wanted to belong, or at least feel like she could. Dressing correctly was an easy start, something she could control. And maybe people would see that she was trying, and give her a little more leeway if she did mess up or cause accidental offense. Kind of like an advance apology.

  She heard the key in the lock and stood, grabbing the bag she’d packed with her sketchpad and pencils. They, together with her fully charged phone, would allow her to document anything she needed with sketches and or photos.

  “Good morning,” she said, her voice a little too chipper, but it morphed into surprise. Dakan wore robes, head to toe, he was like some exotic vision of a sexy lord of the desert.

  He’d refused the robes every single other time she’d seen him, but now he was going to wear them? Even the brooding expression he wore couldn’t detract from the effect he was having on her pulse.

  “Did your advisors knock you down and change your clothes?”

  “I’d actually even take that scenario.” He placed two bags on the floor—one large canvas duffle bag and a suitcase. His hands free, he gathered up the yards of material of his robes, lifted them to show her the simple white linen trousers and T-shirt he wore beneath. “My parents returned from their holiday. The King insisted I wear robes since we’re going out into the countryside in an official capacity. I’m stuck in them for the duration of the trip—which will actually be a little longer now.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Tomorrow Father is sending me to the Immortal Fortress,” Dakan answered. “Us, rather. I’ll need entertainment, and I suppose this fits in with your desire to explore the culture. So you’ll just be stuck with me for an extra day and we’ll resume our trip on Wednesday and Thursday.”

  “What’s the Immortal Fortress?”

  “You don’t know the story?”

  “It’s not one I’m familiar with.”

  “It’s a fortress in the desert near the border. Very old, functionally abandoned until the yearly race. Traditionally, it’s the King’s duty, but since we were going to be out of the capital tomorrow, if he also goes into the desert, there are no Al Rahals within easy reach. There must always be a ruler in residence within easy reach. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. We’ll go and watch the race, crown the winner, and get back here for a relaxing evening.”

  A race didn’t exactly sound like her kind of thing, but getting to experience anything in Mamlakat Almas besides work sounded like heaven. The fact that it was at an ancient fortress? Just amazing. Some opportunities only came once, how likely was it she’d get back there again?

  “What’s in the bags?”

  “I may have failed to mention to them that we’ll be returning to the city daily to sleep here. I’m taking the other bedroom. And the other is medical supplies. The helicopter is waiting for us on the roof.”

  He reached out and tested the weight of the material of her linen trousers. “This should do for now. Thursday’s location’s been getting enormous amounts of rain this season. We might end up canceling if it doesn’t dry up—just so you’re aware.” He called to Tahira, who came out, instructed her to take the other bag to the second bedroom, when to expect their return, then held out his hand to Nira.

  “Rainstorms and flooding in desert country?” she asked, “I bet they’re enjoying that.”

  “It’s rare, but there are stories of rains like that, just not within living memory.”

  Within minutes they’d boarded the helicopter, donned headphones and were whisked heavenward.

  Dakan said nothing, just let her gaze out the window at the sand below, at the roll of early morning light casting perfect curving shadows off the dunes.

  He’d taken her hand a few times when they’d been in public, and Nira had always assumed it was a protective thing—that she was out with him so he felt responsible for her safety. Then things had changed, and he’d begun taking her hand in the apartment when they were quite alone, and she knew the gesture had changed. It was just for the pleasure of touching.

  But once they’d been seated in the helicopter, he’d taken it again, and sat now with their fingers intertwined, resting
in his lap.

  His thumb stroked the outside of her thumb, something he’d only done in private before now. Even in the back of the limo no one really had been able to see what had been going on, but here in the helicopter there were people sitting opposite them, and they’d definitely see.

  Something was different.

  The crew could hear anything she said to him, with everyone wearing the headphones with their mics. All she could do was peel her gaze from the landscape and look at him.

  His eyes were closed, his head leaning back against the headrest, but he wasn’t asleep.

  Something was really wrong.

  The only way she could think to get his attention was to squeeze his hand.

  His eyes opened and he looked at her, brows up, questioning.

  Nira silently mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

  Dakan shook his head, gave her hand another squeeze, and laid his head back again.

  No “Tell you later” or indication that his reluctance to talk was because of their audience. He just didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Tomorrow we’ll be flying further this way, and on Wednesday in the other direction over the royal desert abode. It’s our oasis.”

  “You own an oasis?” As soon as the words were out, she felt dumb. Technically speaking, they kind of owned the country. “Why do you keep a desert abode? Isn’t the desert harsh and somewhere you wouldn’t want to live if you didn’t have to?”

  He shook his head. “You’ll see tomorrow. The desert is harsh, but it’s also beautiful.”

  “Can I see the royal abode? Is it another palace?”

  “Tents. Massive luxurious tents. It actually looks more like a camp village—there are servants who live there year round, they have their own tents.”

  “On the way back on Wednesday can we stop and see it?”

  “There won’t be time. That flight is long.”

  The villages they were traveling to held no promise of the architecture she loved, but they held the promise of glimpsing life for a normal person of Mamlakat Almas—something that would be closer to what he life could’ve been than what she experienced with Dakan. But the idea of a big luxurious tent? Man, she still wanted to see that. And an oasis in the desert? There were probably big palm trees and everything.