Healing The Sheikh's Heart. Annie O'Neil
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up her private life for inspection. Case. Closed. She dug her trainers into the thick carpet and gave a shake of the head, wishing she’d commandeered her wild spray of curls into some sort of obedience. “Nonnegotiable.”
“My daughter, my rule book.”
“Ha! Wow.” Despite her best efforts to stem her response, she snorted. “Someone’s a little used to getting what he wants.”
He quirked an eyebrow in response; a ribbon of heat flickered through her belly as she watched his lips part to respond to her, a full octave lower than usual.
“And someone’s going to have to learn to be a bit more flexible to get what she wants.”
Robyn could’ve sworn she saw the hint of a smile on his lips before he continued briskly. “You will, of course, need to meet the team you will work with for the surgery in Da’har before I allow it—”
“Allow it?” Sorry, pal. Sheikh or no sheikh, she and she alone decided whether or not the surgery was green-lit.
“Yes. Allow it,” Idris replied, entirely unaffected by her interior monologue. “I make decisions about Amira and no one else. It’s the job of a parent to protect, is it not?”
Robyn bit down hard enough on the inside of her cheek to draw blood as he continued. She’d never be a parent and, as such, was denied any right of reply. This time her silence drew venom.
* * *
“How else do you recommend I look after my daughter’s welfare?” Idris snapped. He would move heaven and earth for Amira. Retaining control of her medical treatment was paramount. If he had control, he could ensure nothing would happen to her. Loss—the aching, hollowed-out-heart kind of grief he had felt when his wife had died—was not something he would ever go through again. He pressed his lips tightly together as Robyn began, again, to fight her corner.
“By trusting me and the other physicians at Paddington’s to do our very best—as we always do,” she replied, only just managing to keep the bite out of her own voice. Kaisha, Idris noticed, was inching her way out of the room.
“Then you will do your very best in Da’har.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” Robyn’s index finger went into overdrive. “Not for the surgery. That will happen here.” She pointed in the general direction of Paddington’s, wagging her finger as if that were the decision maker. “It’s Paddington’s world-class facilities...or nowhere.”
The air crackled between them and for just a moment Idris saw a strength in her he doubted few people were privy to. A confidence in her abilities—under her terms—to which he was going to have to acquiesce.
Interesting.
What was it that made Robyn tick? Gave her the strength to disagree with him when everyone else was busy falling over themselves to appease. What would it be like to share the responsibility of Amira’s care with someone he trusted? The thought instantly brought him back to his senses. He had no one. Amira’s care was his and his alone.
“I can get you anything or anyone you like to work with in Da’har. What does it matter where the surgery takes place?”
“Everything!”
They both froze. Idris felt his features recompose themselves into the unreadable mask he’d worn for so long while the tiniest of twitches on Robyn’s face betrayed a fight against the unwelcome sting of tears. His chest tightened. Yes, he wanted control—but not on these terms.
“Isn’t a surgical theater the same anywhere?”
Robyn shook her head, clearly not yet trusting herself to speak.
“My daughter’s welfare is paramount. She is happiest in Da’har.”
“My patient’s welfare is paramount and, as such, I am happiest operating at Paddington’s.”
“Tell me, what’s so special about it?”
* * *
His softer tone suggested a change of tack. One Robyn felt herself drawn to. Even so, she didn’t share. Not even her colleagues knew about the ectopic pregnancy that had ended her dreams of having a family of her own. All they knew was that Robyn poured her heart and soul into Paddington’s and was as much a part of the place as the very bricks and mortar.
“Spend time in Da’har with us.” A smile—one he should use more frequently—accompanied Idris’s words. “If you meet my terms, I will meet yours.”
“You mean the operation will be at Paddington’s?”
“So long as you join us in Da’har. The sooner, the better.”
A trip to Da’har.
Her lungs strained against the thought. Even so...something told her this was a throw-caution-to-the-winds moment. It was not like she was facing a life or death decision. What harm could seeing a children’s musical and a couple of days in Da’har do in the greater scheme of things apart from scare her witless by yanking her straight out of her comfort zone?
So she’d have a handful of days not knowing if she was coming or going. Days that could change the face of things at Paddington’s, making every moment of scrutinizing looks from the desert kingdom’s leader worth it.
Idris’s eyes bore down on her as he waited for an answer, a shift of his jawline betraying his impatience.
Her tummy flipped.
And...breathe.
See? Survived the first step.
Robyn gave a quick nod and stuck out her hand in as businesslike a fashion as she could muster. “I trust there will be chocolate-covered ginger biscuits where we’re going?”
Maybe not quite as grown-up as she’d been aiming for.
“More than enough.” Idris’s voice deepened as he mirrored her nod, engulfing her hand in both of his as he did. Why hadn’t she noticed how large his hands were before? And how strong. And gentle enough in their strength to make her feel...delicate.
Crikey. If only she could take a pile of those ginger biscuits back with her and curl up in a corner until every last crumb of them had disappeared. A sugar high might be the only way she’d have the strength to go through with this harebrained scheme.
“Kaisha,” Idris called over his shoulder, hands still encasing hers as if they were precious jewels, “can we get the rest of Dr. Kelly’s biscuits put in a basket or something so that she can bring them back to the hospital. To share.” He arched an eyebrow at her, all but proving he’d read her mind.
* * *
A few moments later, a flame-faced Robyn was jabbing at the lift buttons, a wicker basket swinging from her arm laden with enough ginger biscuits to feed an army.
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Where was the elite and exclusive service when you needed it? She could feel the Sheikh’s bodyguards train their eyes on her, hoping they read nothing into the jiggling she could feel beginning as a hit of nerves overtook her entire upper body.
He’d seen into her soul.
How was that even possible? Less than an hour with Idris—Sheikh Idris Al Khalil. Her polar opposite if ever there was one, and yet...
She shot a glance over her shoulder again and grimaced. If the muscle men evaporated she could start banging her head against the controls hoping to knock some sense into herself at the same time. What on earth was she doing? Agreeing to up stakes and hang out in a desert kingdom with the cool-as-a-cucumber mind reader? Her private life was exactly that and she didn’t know how many more X-ray vision looks she could deflect.
A low groan filled the space around her. A droning moan of despair. Oh, wait. She was making that sound. Oops.
She turned around and flashed the bodyguards a quick smile, which grew brighter when