The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum. Meredith Webber
hiding her hand under the papers still resting on what was left of her lap, she gave it a pat, mentally reassuring it that things would sort themselves out, though what things, and quite how, she had no idea. Oliver was, after all, the father of the baby, and should he want it, and be fit enough to care for it, then all would be well, but there were too many uncertainties to even consider the poor thing’s future at the moment so, to distract herself from the depression she was teetering towards, she forgot about not talking to Khalifa.
‘The name, Tinine, does it, too, mean something?’
Of course he had to smile!
And now she was reasonably close to him, she could see a twinkle in the depths of his dark eyes.
A very beguiling twinkle.
Fizz, spark, spark, fizz—surely pregnant women shouldn’t feel this level of physical attraction!
‘You will have to wait and see,’ he replied, and the promise in his voice made her physical reactions worse—far worse—though all the man was discussing was the name of his country, not some riotous sexual encounter in the back cabin of the plane.
Was it a double bed?
Queen size?
King?
Her wayward mind was throwing up the questions and it took all her determination and discipline to pull it back into line.
Forget about the destination, concentrate on the unit. She pulled out the figures, playing with what she already knew. Najme had a population of approximately fifty thousand people and a high birth rate of twenty per thousand. Khalifa had already explained that about a third of the population were expats, doctors, teachers, scientists and labourers, all brought in from other places to help in the modernisation of the country.
Fiddling with the figures, knowing full well that they told her only three basic beds would be required, she began to wonder just why her new boss was planning a larger facility.
‘Are you expecting the population to grow fairly swiftly, or more people to move into the city? Or is there some other reason you want the larger unit?’
The question had come out before she realised Khalifa was speaking to Saif.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted. I was thinking out loud.’
No smile this time, which was just as well—and the little twinge of disappointment was stupidity.
‘I’m discussing our menu for the flight and you’re thinking work,’ Khalifa said, enough amusement in his voice to start the fizzing. ‘Do you never relax?’
‘It’s Tuesday, that’s a workday for me. And, yes, I can relax, but I did want to check over these figures again.’
He almost smiled.
‘The surrounding area supports probably as many people again, although the majority of them are living as they’ve always lived. Traditions dating back thousands of years are hard to change, and I am afraid if I rush things, we will lose too much.’
‘Lose too much?’ she queried.
‘Traditional skills and values,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean camel milking, or even spinning thread from the wool of goats, but what we call our intangible cultural heritage. The patterns the women wove into the rugs told the history of our tribe, told it in pictures they understood, and using these rugs, which they spread on the floor in summer and hung on the inside walls of their tents in winter, they taught the children. Now the children learn in school, learn skills and information they will need to equip them for the modern world. But how do we keep our tribal history alive?’
‘You’ve spoken before about keeping tradition alive,’ Liz remembered, ‘and while I can’t help you with any ideas about the cultural side, I do wonder, if these people live as they’ve always lived, will they use a hospital to have their babies, and would they be able to adapt to the situation if the baby needs special care?’
Her companion sighed deeply.
‘I’m not really expecting them to use an obstetrician and have their babies in a hospital. Not immediately anyway, but once a baby is born, that life is precious and if it needs help, I am certain they will seek it.’
He paused and she wondered just how much pain this discussion might be causing him—how much it might remind him of his wife.
‘We have always had midwives, for want of a better word: women within the tribe who were taught by their elders to help other women through their pregnancy and childbirth. Now young local women are training not only as modern midwives but as obstetricians, and although they can’t be everywhere, they can work with the older women, explaining new ideas and methods. Maybe through them we can introduce the idea of special care for fragile infants so, should the situation arise, the women will more readily accept the unit.’
‘Or perhaps, with a translator—even with you if you had the time—I could visit some of these outlying areas, take a crib, show them what we can do, and how we can help the babies, explain that the family can be involved as well.’
To Liz’s surprise, the man laughed, a real, wholehearted laugh that changed his face completely.
‘Not families, I implore you,’ he said at last, still smiling. ‘You will get aunts, cousins, sisters, grandmothers—forty or fifty people all wanting to sit with the baby.’
‘That many?’ Liz teased, smiling back at him, and something in the air stilled, tension joining them together in an invisible bond, eyes holding eyes, a moment out of time, broken only when Saif said, in a long-suffering voice, ‘If we could please get back to the menu!’
The menu proved delicious. Slices of melon and fresh, sweet strawberries with a slightly tart mint syrup poured over them. Delicate slivers of duck breast followed, the slices arranged on overlapping circles of potato, crispy on top and soft underneath, while fresh white asparagus with a simple butter sauce completed the main meal.
Offered a range of sweets, Liz declined, settling instead for a platter of fruit and hard cheese, finding, to her delight, that the dates accompanying it were so delicious she had to comment on them.
‘They are from Najme,’ Khalifa explained. ‘We have the best dates in the world.’
Liz, replete and happy, forgot about the moment of tension earlier and had to tease again.
‘You’d know that, of course, from the World Date Olympics, would you? Do they judge on colour and size as well as taste?’
Khalifa studied her for a moment. Where was the stressed, anxious, and obviously sad woman he’d first met at the hospital? Was this light-hearted, teasing Liz Jones the real Liz Jones?
He had no idea, although the thought that she might have relaxed because she’d escaped from the father of her child did sneak into his mind.
‘We just know ours are the best,’ he said firmly, ‘and while we don’t have a date Olympics you’ll be arriving just in time for the judging of the falcons—a kind of falcon Olympics.’
Interest sparked in her eyes and she studied him in turn—checking to see if he was joking?
‘Falcons?’ she repeated.
‘Our hunting birds,’ he explained. ‘It’s one custom we are determined not to let die. The birds are part of our heritage and at Najme you will see them at their best, for everyone wants to have the best bird.’
‘Falcons,’ she whispered, smiling, not at him, he thought, but to herself. ‘Now I really know I’m heading for another world. Thank you,’ she said, ‘not just for giving me this opportunity but for so much else.’
She pushed aside the little table and undid her seat belt.
‘And now,’ she said, ‘if it’s all right with you, I might check out that bedroom.’
Saif must have been