Carrying The Sheikh's Baby. Heidi Rice
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and she’d only been in his presence for five minutes? Surely that was just a by-product of all the things that had held her back for so long. Confidence had to be earned. And that meant facing your fears. And not being a coward.
All you have to do is believe you can, Cat. Then you will.
Her father’s supportive voice and the encouragement he’d given her when she’d been crippled with anxiety on her first day of primary school, of secondary school, of sixth-form college, of university and then graduate school, echoed through her head.
A bubble of excitement burst in her blood. Yes, the thought of this trip was terrifying. But it was way past time she stopped living in her comfort zone. She was twenty-four years old. And she’d never even had a proper boyfriend—the flush rode up her neck—which probably explained why she’d practically passed out when she’d met Zane Khan.
She’d pored over pictures and artefacts from Narabia, been captivated by the country’s stunningly diverse geography and its rich cultural heritage—but she’d only been able to scratch the surface of its secrets. She already knew she needed to experience the country and the culture first-hand to validate her work. The chance to experience what might well be a tumultuous time in the country’s history was also tantalising—professionally speaking.
And the only time she would have to spend in Zane Khan’s company would be for her research.
‘Would I be able to have full access to the archives?’
‘Of course,’ he answered without hesitation.
An anthropological book detailing the country’s rich cultural heritage, its monarchy and the challenges they were facing made sense. Zane Khan and his own past were surely at the centre of that.
‘I’d also like to interview you at some point,’ she said before she could chicken out.
She saw the flicker of something brittle and defensive in his eyes and the muscle in his jaw tensed. ‘Why would that be necessary?’
‘Well, you’re the country’s ruler,’ she said, not sure why she was having to explain herself. ‘And also because you had a Westernised childhood—you would have a unique perspective that spans both cultures.’
‘I’m sure I can arrange to speak to you at some point,’ he said, but his tone was strangely tight. ‘So do we have a deal?’
She let out a deep breath, feeling as if she were about to jump off a cliff—because in a lot of ways she was... But she’d been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time.
You don’t want to be a mouse for ever.
‘Okay—you’ve got a deal,’ she said, the surge of excitement at her own daring almost overwhelming her panic.
She reached out her hand, but then long strong fingers folded over hers—and she yearned to snatch it back. His grip was firm, impersonal, but the rush of sensation that raced up her arm was anything but.
‘How long will it take you to pack?’ he asked.
‘Umm... I should be able to fly over in a week or so,’ she said, grateful when he released her hand. She needed to rearrange her teaching schedule, pack up her flat on campus and give herself more time to make absolutely sure she was happy jumping off this cliff.
‘Not good enough,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, disturbed by the no-nonsense tone, and the sensation still streaking up her arm.
‘I’ll have the contract drawn up and delivered to you within the hour. Is five hundred thousand pounds sufficient for your input on the project?’
Half a million pounds!
‘I... That’s very generous.’
‘Excellent, then we will leave for Narabia tonight.’
We...? Tonight...? What...?
‘I...’
He held up his hand, and the feeble protest got stuck in her throat.
‘No buts. We made a deal.’ He took a phone out of his trouser pocket, and walked past her. The two bodyguards and Walmsley, who must have been lurking outside the door, all snapped to attention as he opened it.
So Zane Khan didn’t just have that disturbing effect on her.
‘Dr Smith will be leaving on my private jet tonight,’ he announced.
Walmsley’s mouth dropped open comically, but Cat didn’t feel much like laughing.
Zane glanced over his shoulder. ‘A car will arrive in four hours to take you to the airport,’ he said.
‘But that’s not enough time,’ she managed, past the constriction in her throat. What exactly had she just agreed to? Because she was starting to feel like a mouse again. A very timid, overwhelmed mouse, in the presence of a large, extremely predatory lion.
‘Anything you need will be provided for you,’ he said, cutting off any more protests by lifting the phone back to his ear and striding away down the corridor, with the two bodyguards flanking him.
Cat watched his tall figure disappear round the corner, her breath locked in her lungs and her stomach free-falling off the cliff without the rest of her.
Problem was, she hadn’t had the chance to jump off this particular cliff—because she’d just been pushed.
CAT ARRIVED AT the private airfield outside Cambridge four and a half hours later, still dazed from her meeting with the Narabian ruler.
Is this actually happening?
The arc lights from the airfield hangar illuminated a sleek private jet painted in the gold and green colours of the desert kingdom’s flag.
The driver, who had arrived on the dot of eight o’clock at her flat on campus, hauled her borrowed rucksack out of the back of the limousine and escorted Cat across the airfield to the plane’s steps.
A man appeared at the aircraft’s door, dressed in a robe and a traditional Narabian headdress. He lifted the battered bag off the chauffeur’s shoulder and ushered her onto the plane, introducing himself as Abdallah, one of the Sheikh’s personal servants.
She was led through the cabin—the plush leather seats and polished teak tables offset by thick wool carpeting—into a private bedroom at the end of the plane.
‘You will be served dinner in here once we are airborne,’ the man said in perfect English, putting her bag onto one of the cabin’s armchairs. She stifled the sting of embarrassment at the sight of the hastily packed rucksack marring the butter-soft leather upholstery. ‘Suitable clothing has been made available for your stay in Narabia,’ Abdallah announced, his gaze flicking discreetly over her attire—and making her acutely aware of the battered boots, jeans and second-hand sweater she hadn’t had a chance to change out of. There was no censure in his tone, but still she felt impossibly awkward and ill-prepared. Especially when the servant slid open the door of a built-in wardrobe to reveal an array of dark flowing robes.
‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, has asked that you dress appropriately when leaving the plane—and limit your questions to myself or the other palace staff at all times.’
Cat nodded mutely, her nervousness accompanied by a tingle of irritation. It seemed His Divine Majesty was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. But how was she going to be able to do the research she needed to do on Narabia’s customs and culture if she was not able to be a free agent?
‘Is Mr Khan on the plane?’ she asked.
The man’s eyebrows