The Sheikh's Undoing. Sharon Kendrick
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could shrug off emotion and responsibility so easily …
Composing herself with a huge effort of will, she turned to the nurse. ‘What happens now?’ she asked but Tariq answered before the woman in uniform had a chance to.
‘I get off this damned bed and you drive me to the office. That’s what happens,’ he snapped. But as he tried to sit up the stupid shooting pain made him slump back against the bed again, and he groaned and then glared at her again as if it was all her fault.
‘Will you please lie still, Prince al Hakam?’ ordered the nurse crisply, before turning to Isobel. ‘The doctors would like to keep the Sheikh in for twenty-four hours’ observation.’
‘Izzy,’ said Tariq, and as Isobel turned to him his black eyes glinted with the kind of steely determination she recognised so well. ‘Sort this out for me, will you? There’s no way I’m staying in this damned hospital for a minute longer.’
For a moment Isobel didn’t speak. There were many times when she admired her boss—because nobody could deny his drive, his determination, his unerring nose for success. But his arrogance and sheer self-belief sometimes had the potential to be his downfall. Like now.
‘Look, this isn’t some business deal you’re masterminding,’ she said crossly. ‘This is your health we’re talking about—and you’re not the expert here, Tariq, the doctors and nurses are. They don’t want to keep you in because it’s some sort of fun—I can’t imagine it’s much fun having you as a patient—but because it’s necessary. And if you don’t start listening to them and doing what they say, then I’m going to walk out of here right now and leave you to get on with it.’
There was a pause as Tariq’s eyes narrowed angrily. ‘But I have meetings—’
‘I know precisely what meetings you have,’ she interrupted, her voice gentling suddenly as she registered the strain which was etched on his face. ‘I organise your diary, don’t I? I’ll sort everything out back at the office and you’re not to worry about a thing. Do you … ?’ She found herself staring down at the white hospital sheet which now seemed to be stretched uncomfortably tight across the muscular expanse of his torso. ‘Do you want me to get hold of some pyjamas for you?’
‘Pyjamas?’ His mouth curved into a smile which mocked her almost as much as the lazy glitter of his eyes. ‘You think I’m the kind of man who wears pyjamas, do you, Izzy?’
Inexplicably, her heart began to pound with unwilling excitement—and Isobel was furious at her reaction. Had he seen it—and was that why his smile had now widened into an arrogant smirk? ‘Your choice of nightwear isn’t something I’ve given a lot of thought to,’ she answered crossly. ‘But I’ll take that as a no. Is there anything else you want?’
Tariq winced as he recalled the blood-stained and crumpled clothing which was stuffed into a plastic bag in the locker next to his bed. ‘Just bring me some clean clothes, can you? And a razor?’
‘Of course. And as soon as the doctors give you the thumbs-up I’ll come and get you. Is that okay?’
There was a pause as their gazes met. ‘You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?’ he questioned, closing his eyes as a sudden and powerful fatigue washed over him. It was like no feeling he’d ever experienced and it left him feeling debilitated. Weak. The last thing he wanted was for his assistant to see him looking weak. ‘Just go, will you, Izzy?’ he added wearily.
Slipping silently from the room, Isobel walked until she stepped out into the brightening light of the spring morning. Sucking in a deep breath, she felt a powerful sense of relief washing over her. Tariq was alive. That was the main thing. He might have had a nasty knock to the head, but hopefully he hadn’t done any lasting damage. And yet … She bit her lip as she climbed into her car and started up the engine, her thoughts still in turmoil. How alone he had looked on that narrow hospital bed.
The loud tooting of a car made her glance into the driving mirror, where she caught a glimpse of her pale and unwashed face. A touch of reality began to return.
Alone?
Tariq?
Why, there were innumerable women who would queue around the block to put paid to that particular myth with no more incentive than the elevation of one black and arrogant eyebrow and that mocking smile. Tariq had plenty of people to take care of him, she reminded herself. He didn’t need her.
Arriving back in London, she spent the rest of the day cancelling meetings and dealing with the calls which flooded in from his associates. She worked steadily until eight, then went over to his apartment—a vast penthouse in a tall building which overlooked Green Park. Although she held a spare set of keys, she’d only ever been there once before, when she had delivered a package which the Sheikh had been expecting and which had arrived very late at the office, while she’d still been working. Rather than having it couriered round to him, Isobel had decided to take it there herself.
It had been one of the most embarrassing occasions of her life, because a tousle-headed Tariq had answered the door wearing what was clearly a hastily pulled on silk dressing gown. His face had been faintly flushed as he’d taken the package from her, and she hadn’t needed to hear the breathless female voice calling his name to realise that he had company.
But it had been his almost helpless shrug which had infuriated her more than anything. The way his black eyes had met hers and he’d bestowed on her one of his careless smiles. As if he was inviting her to join him in a silent conspiracy of wondering why he was just so irresistible to women. She remembered thrusting the package into his hands and stomping off home to an empty apartment, cursing the arrogance of the Playboy Prince.
Closing her mind to the disturbing memory, Isobel let herself into the apartment using the complicated trio of keys. Experience made her listen for a moment. But everything was silent—which meant that his servants had all gone home for the evening.
In his dressing room she found jeans, cashmere sweaters and a leather jacket—and added a warm scarf. But when it came to selecting some boxer shorts from the silken pile which were heaped neatly in a drawer, she found herself blushing for the second time that day. How … intimate it was to be rifling through Tariq’s underwear. Underwear which had clung to the oiled silk of his olive skin …
Frustrated with the wayward trajectory of her thoughts, she threw the clothes into an overnight bag and let herself out. Then she phoned the hospital, to be told that the Sheikh’s condition was satisfactory and that if he continued to improve then he could be discharged the next day.
But the press had got wind of his crash—despite the reassuring statement which Isobel had asked his PR people to issue. Fabulously wealthy injured sheikhs always provided fascinating copy, and by the time she arrived back at the hospital the following morning there were photographers hanging around the main entrance.
Tariq had been transferred to a different side ward, and Isobel walked in to see a small gaggle of doctors gathered around the foot of his bed. There was an unmistakable air of tension in the room.
She shot a glance at her boss, who was sitting up in bed, unshaven and unashamedly bare-chested—the vulnerability of yesterday nothing but a distant memory. His black eyes glittered with displeasure as he saw her, and his voice was cool.
‘Ah, Izzy. At last.’
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
‘Damned right there is.’
A tall, bespectacled man detached himself from the group, extending his hand and introducing himself as the consultant. ‘You’re his partner?’ he asked Isobel, as he glanced down at the overnight bag she was carrying.
Isobel went bright red, and she couldn’t miss the narrow-eyed look which Tariq angled in her direction. But for some reason she was glad that she wasn’t the same wild-haired scarecrow she’d been in the middle of the night. That she’d taken the care to wash and tame her