Healing The Sheikh's Heart. Annie O'Neil
when we’re alone. There’s only so much sycophancy a man can take in a day. You, of all people, know how important it is we find the right doctor for Amira.”
“Yes, Your... Idris.” Kaisha winced, did a variation of a curtsy, then threw her arms up in the air with the futility of getting it right and left the room. They both knew there was no need for a curtsy. They both knew Idris’s glowering mood was virtually impossible to lift. He’d worn his “thunder face,” as Amira liked to call it, near enough every day for the past seven years.
Despite his headache, an overdose of London’s medical glitterati and a growing need to get out and stride off his frustration in one of London’s sprawling royal parks, Idris smiled. Kaisha was loyal, intelligent and the last person he should be venting his frustration on. He’d hired her because she specialized in Da’har’s rich history. Not for her skills as a PA. Perhaps he should hire her a PA to take up the slack.
He cupped his chin, stretching his neck first one way, then the next, willing the tension of the day to leave him...if not the penthouse suite altogether.
He crossed the impressive expanse of the suite’s main sitting room. The “trophy suite” no less. Even he had winced at the pompous moniker but the location and views were incomparable. Nothing was off the shelf at Wyckham Place. Handcrafted tables, bespoke art pieces hung to match the modern, but undeniably select, furnishings and decor. He lived a life of privilege and preferred this type of understated elegance to flashy shows of gold-plated wealth. Apart from which, Amira liked the view of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament the penthouse suite afforded. Anything to bring a smile to his little girl’s face. She was so serious all the time. Little wonder, he supposed, without a mother’s tender care and a father more prone to gravitas than gaiety.
His eyes hit a mirror as they left the view—the image confirming his thoughts. Hard angles, glinting eyes and the glower of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was a time when all he would’ve seen in return was a broad smile. When life was little short of perfect.
His gaze snagged on his grimace. Losing his wife had all but ripped his easily won grin straight from his face.
He looked away. Self-reflection had been another casualty. All that remained was his daughter’s happiness and the well-being of Da’har. If a nation’s character could run in a man’s genes he knew he embodied all that the small Gulf nation stood for. Pride. Strength. Resilience.
His dark eyes hit the solid door of the suite, beyond which were two of his most trusted employees. Beyond them, at the lift, two more. And in the foyer of the hotel more waited, innocuously, in plain clothes. They were meant to provide a sense of security. Today it felt stifling.
A sudden urge overtook him to tug on a hat and walk out into the streets of London, bodyguards left behind none the wiser, and become...no one in particular. But finding the right surgeon for his daughter was paramount. He’d tolerate near enough anything for her. Even torture by fawning hospital officials. He was mortal, after all. A true god would have foreseen the complications his wife had endured during the birth of their beautiful daughter. A truer one would have saved her.
“How long has Amira been at the zoo?” Idris called over his shoulder.
Kaisha appeared by his side again. “Only an hour or so, Your—Idris. As you requested, they cleared the zoo of other patrons so Amira could have a private tour.”
He wondered, fleetingly, how Kaisha did that. Just...appeared. Maybe she’d been in the room the entire time and he simply hadn’t noticed. One of his recently “acquired” traits.
Not so recent, he reminded himself. The seven longest years of his life. The only light in that time? His beautiful daughter.
“Excellent. Amira always takes ages with the giraffes and penguins. And remember, I don’t want her anywhere near the hotel until we find the right person. If I have to pay to keep the zoo open longer, that’s not a problem.”
Even Idris didn’t miss the pained expression Kaisha tried to hide from him as she lifted her clipboard to hide her features.
“What is it, Kaisha?”
“It’s just...”
“Out with it!” Patience might be a virtue but it was most likely because it was in short supply. Particularly in his hotel suite.
“You’ve seen most of the specialists already and haven’t bothered to hear any of them out.”
“They all seemed more interested in attaching the Al Khalil name to their hospitals—or the Al Khalil money, rather—than in my daughter. She’s the entire point of this exercise. Cutting-edge medicine. The best money can buy. Not getting my name spread across London! If Amira hadn’t wanted to see that musical I would’ve flown everyone to Da’har and not wasted my time.”
Kaisha, to her credit, nodded somberly. She had heard it all before. In between each of the interviews today, in fact. And the day before. Any patience in the room was Kaisha’s alone. Idris was more than aware he had a tether and was swiftly approaching the very end of it.
“Right! It’s the next person on the list or we’re off to Boston Pediatrics or New York ENT. Enough of this nonsense. All right?”
“Yes, Your Ex—Idris.” Kaisha gave a quick smile, proud to have remembered the less formal address in the nick of time. “Shall I fetch the next candidate?”
“We might as well get it over with,” Idris grumbled, settling back into the only chair that comfortably accommodated his long limbs. “Who is it, please?”
“Uh—yes, sorry—it’s Robyn Kelly. Dr. Robyn Kelly. Salaam Alaikum.”
Idris looked up sharply. The voice answering him was most definitely not Kaisha’s.
Alssamawat aljamila!
The pair of eyes unabashedly meeting his own were the most extraordinary color.
Amber.
Lit from within just as a valued piece of the fossilized resin would be if it were held up to the sun. Mesmerizing.
The sharp realization that he was staring, responding to this woman in a way he had only done once before, made him bite out angrily, though she bore no blame for his transgression.
“How did you get in here?”
“Walked,” she answered plainly, her wayward blond curls falling forward as she looked down. “With these.” She pointed at her feet, clad in the sort of trainers he would’ve expected to see on a teenager. His eyes shot back to hers when he heard her giggling as if he had just asked the silliest question in the world.
“Oh!” She popped a finger up as a sign he should take note. “Your...I think they’re your bodyguards...kindly let me in to ‘powder my nose’ a few minutes early. Hope that was all right. And it’s Robyn with a y not an i—i.e., not like the little birdie up in the trees but pretty close! Blame my parents,” she finished with a playful shrug.
He narrowed his eyes, assessing the new arrival as coolly as he could considering she looked about as dangerous as a baby lamb. Even so, no one got past his bodyguards. Ever. And yet this amber-eyed sylph had done just that. What if she’d found Amira and stolen her away? His heart seized at the thought.
Pragmatics forced him to blink away the foolish notion with a stern reminder that this...“Robyn”...was very human and that his daughter was safe and well.
His gaze returned to Robyn. A couple of inches above average height. About his age—midthirties. Slender. At least what he could see of her, as most of her body was hidden beneath an oversize trench coat that would’ve been stylish if she’d bought the correct size or used the belt as intended rather than as a long rope to swing round and round like an anxious cowgirl as she awaited his response. A wild spray of golden curls. Untamed. A makeup-free face. Evidence the “nose-powdering” was a euphemism. Her cheeks were pink...with the cold, perhaps? By Da’harian standards, the day was