Healing The Sheikh's Heart. Annie O'Neil
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 wintry. A three-year stint at an English university had taught him the on-again, off-again late-summer rainstorms were normal. In keeping with the storm-tossed treetops quaking along the riverbanks below, Robyn Kelly was looking similarly windswept and ever so slightly unkempt.
Perhaps more faerie or wayward pixie than sylph, then.
The mythical creatures, he suspected, didn’t giggle. Nor did they tug their fingers through their hair when it was too late to make a good first impression.
Even so—he shifted in his seat—it was easy enough to picture Robyn in gossamer with a set of diaphanous wings taking flight over the palace gardens of Da’har.
Mercifully, he caught a glimpse of Kaisha appearing, and gave his throat a quick clear as if it would shunt away the images Robyn’s presence elicited.
Kaisha shot an apologetic look at Idris. She didn’t seem to know how Robyn had entered the suite any more than he did. “Dr. Kelly, could we offer you some coffee or—”
“Bless you, love! I’d kill for a good old-fashioned cup of builder’s.” Robyn’s face lit up with a bright smile at Kaisha’s instantly furrowed brow. “Apologies!” She laughed. “I forget English is your...what is it—third or fourth language?”
“Fourth.” Kaisha smiled shyly.
“Fourth! I should be so lucky.” Robyn’s amber eyes flicked to Idris as if to say, Can you believe this girl?
“And such different languages, as well. If I remember from our emails, you have the Da’har dialect, Arabic, French and English?”
Kaisha nodded.
“Impressive. The only other language I speak is ‘menu.’ Builder’s tea,” Robyn explained, hardly pausing for breath. “It means brewed strong and with a healthy dollop of milk.”
“Not cream?”
“No, love.” Robyn shook her head with a gentle smile. “I’m not so posh as all that. And if you have a couple of biccies tucked away in there somewhere so much the better.” She turned on the heel of what the cool kids would call her “trendy kicks” to face Idris. “I’m sorry. This is all a bit whirlwindy of me, isn’t it? Shall I begin again? A bit more officially?” She stuck out her hand without waiting for an answer. “Dr. Kelly from Paddington Children’s Hospital and you are...?”
“Sheikh Idris Al Khalil,” he answered, rising to his full height and accepting her proffered hand, bemused to have to introduce himself at all.
“Great!” Robyn gave his hand a quick, sharp shake and just as quickly extracted her hand with a little wriggle as if he’d squeezed it too hard and not the other way around. “Amira’s father.” Her eyes darted around the room as she spoke. “Excellent. All right if I just throw my mac here on the sofa or would you rather I grab a hanger from somewhere so you could hang it up on...?” Her eyes continued to scan the room for an appropriate place to hang her soaked raincoat while he found himself completely and utterly at a loss for words.
No one had asked him to lift so much as a finger for them since...ever. Not that he minded lending a hand to a person in need, but...her lack of interest in his position in the Middle East, let alone the world, was refreshing. If not slightly disarming.
He arched an eyebrow as she twisted around, untangling herself from the tan overcoat and about three meters’ worth of hand-knitted scarf, muttering all the while about “British summers.”
She pulled off the coat, managing to get an arm stuck in one of the sleeves, went through a microscopic and lightning-speed thought process before, rather unceremoniously, yanking her arm out and turning the sleeve inside out in the process. She gave an exasperated sigh, bundled the whole coat up with the scarf and tossed it into the corner of the überchic sofa before flopping onto the other corner in a show of faux despair.
He felt exhausted just watching her. And not a little intrigued.
Idris flicked his eyes away from Robyn’s, finding the golden glow of them a bit too captivating. More so than her ensemble: a corduroy skirt that had seen the washing machine more than a few times, a flowered top with a button dangling precariously from a string. The trainers... More student than elite surgeon.
She was a marked contrast to the four preceding candidates who had all looked immaculate. Expensive suits. Silk ties. Freshly polished shoes. All coming across as if their mothers had dressed them for their first day at school. He huffed out a single, mirthless laugh. Little good it had done them.
“What? Is there something wrong?” Robyn asked, her gaze following his to her cream-colored top dappled with pink tulips, a flush of color hitting her cheekbones when her eyes lit on a stain.
“Ah! Apologies!” she chirped, then laughed, pulling her discarded, well-worn leather satchel up from the ground where she’d dropped it when she came in and began digging around for a moment before triumphantly revealing a half-used supersize packet of wipes. “We just had congratulations cupcakes at the hospital for one of the surgeons who’s newly engaged and I shared one with a patient while we were reading and—” she threw up her hands in a What can you do? gesture “—frosting!”
She took a dab at the streak of pink icing with a finger and he watched, mesmerized, as the tip of her tongue popped out, swirled around her finger, then made another little swipe along her full lower lip. “Buttercream. I just love that stuff! Doesn’t stop the children from getting it absolutely everywhere, though, does it?”
She began scrubbing at her top with the wipe, chattering away as she did. “Bless them. Being in hospital is bad enough, but having to worry about manners?” She shrugged an indecipherable response into the room, clearly not expecting him to join in on the one-sided conversation. “Then again, if the hospital weren’t on the brink of closing I probably wouldn’t be here making a class-A idiot out of myself. I’d be in surgery where I belong.”
Her eyes flicked up and met his.
“Uh-oh.” Her upper teeth took hold of her full lower lip as her face creased into an apologetic expression. “Out-loud voice?” Again, she didn’t wait for an answer, shook her head and returned to her task. “That’s what they get for sending the head of surgery and not PR!”
Idris watched near openmouthed, trying to divine if she was mad or if he was for letting her ramble on, all the while dabbing her blouse a bit too close to the gentle swell of her...
He forced his gaze away, feeling his shoulders cinch and release as Robyn’s monologue continued unabated. She hadn’t noticed. Just as well. He was in the market for a surgeon, not a lover.
“We, meaning everyone at the Castle—aka Paddington’s—obviously imagine Amira is a gorgeous little girl, and I, for one, can’t wait to meet her. So!” Robyn dropped the used wipe into her satchel and clapped her hands onto her knees. “Where is she?”
“I’m sorry?” Idris crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, all the while locking eyes with her. He was used to conducting interviews. Not the other way around. Who was this woman? Minihurricane or a much-needed breath of fresh air?
* * *
“Amira?”