Desert Doctor, Secret Sheikh. Meredith Webber
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Kam came toward her and took her hand, leading her onto the flat rock, then exerting gentle pressure as he said, “Sit.”
Jen sat, as much to escape the touch of his hand as from obedience. Memories of the kiss fluttered uneasily in her body.
“Now, breathe the cooling night air and watch the sunset,” Kam ordered.
I don’t want the beauty of the desert creeping in, she wanted to say. It is too seductive, too all-encompassing.
But his was the name that trembled on her lips as he lifted his head, the better to see her face in the dusk light; his the name she whispered as she leaned into him and raised her mouth to his again.
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MEREDITH WEBBER says of herself, “Some ten years ago, I read an article which suggested that Harlequin was looking for new medical authors. I had one of those ‘I can do that’ moments, and gave it a try. What began as a challenge has become an obsession, though I do temper the ‘butt on seat’ career of writing with dirty but healthy outdoor pursuits, such as fossicking through the Australian Outback in search of gold or opals. Having had some success in all of these endeavors, I now consider I’ve found the perfect lifestyle.”
Desert Doctor, Secret Sheikh
Meredith Webber
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
JEN lifted the almost weightless child onto her hip and turned towards the car approaching them, hoping the driver would stop before he reached the tents so the cloud of gritty sand the vehicle was kicking up would settle outside rather than inside her makeshift hospital.
He did stop. The battered four-wheel-drive pulled up some twenty metres from where she stood, but a perverse drift of wind lifted the trailing red cloud and carried it in her direction, so she had to step backwards in order not to be engulfed in its dust. She put her hand over the little girl’s nose and mouth, and scowled at the man stepping out from behind the wheel.
Unexpected visitors usually meant trouble. Most of the small states in this area had moved quickly into the twentieth century and then the twenty-first, with modern cities, wonderful facilities and the best of medical care, but in Zaheer, the ruling sheikh did not agree with modern ways and though he himself was rarely seen, his minions made the presence of even essential aid services uncomfortable.
The man who disembarked wore rather tattered jeans and a T-shirt, not the flowing robes of the usual official sent to ask what they were doing and to be shown around, suspicion of the organisation’s aims bristling in the air.
This man was very different, though why Jen had that impression she couldn’t say.
Was he a traveller lost in the desert, or something else?
Some instinct she’d never felt before warned her to be wary but she dismissed this vague unease with a sharp, unspoken Nonsense! Beneath the dust on the vehicle there appeared to be some kind of logo, so maybe he was an official, or an aid worker from another organisation.
She wanted to ignore him, to turn away, tired of the battles she fought with red tape, but with more refugees arriving at the camp every day she needed all the help she could get, and he might just be helpful to her.
She stood her ground.
But she didn’t smile.
Which was probably just as well, she realised as the man stepped out of his dust cloud and she caught her first good look at the tall, well-built figure, the tanned skin, the dark, dark hair and—surely not green eyes?
She looked again as he came closer—they were green, pale, translucent almost, and so compelling she knew she was staring.
But all in all he was a man women would stare at automatically, and smile at as well—probably to cover the fluttering in the region of their hearts.
Not that she did heart flutters over men—not since David…
‘Dr Stapleton?’
The visitor’s voice was deep, but with a huskiness that suggested he might have a cold or sore throat, or that he might have cultivated it—a bedroom voice, practised for seduction…
Seduction? Where had that thought sprung from?
‘Yes!’ she managed, nodding to reinforce the spoken confirmation, knowing the fleeting thought of danger was nonsensical.
‘I’m Kam Rahman,’ the stranger said, stepping closer and offering his hand. ‘Head office of Aid for All heard you were in trouble—trying to look after the medical needs of the people in the camp as well as run the TB programme—and sent me along to look into setting up a medical clinic here and to investigate the needs of the refugees.’
‘You’re a doctor?’ Jen asked, taking in the threadbare jeans and the T-shirt that looked older than she was, once again trying not to be distracted by the blatant maleness of the body inside them.
‘Trained in London,’ he said, bowing deeply. ‘But my father was an official of sorts in this country so I grew up here and speak the language, which is why Aid for All thought I’d be more useful here than in South America, where my language skills would be useless. Although, given the way the world works, it’s a wonder I didn’t end up there.’
He smiled, perhaps in the hope she’d enjoyed his little joke, but the smile made the sense of danger stronger and Jen found herself taking a backward step and shifting Rosana so the child was between her and the stranger.
Not that the man noticed her movement, or registered that she hadn’t taken his proffered hand. He was too busy looking around, his keen eyes scanning the tent city that spread outward from the end of the road.
‘You’re more than welcome,’ Jen told him, although inside she didn’t feel at all welcoming. Inside she felt disturbed, which, she supposed, wasn’t all that unbelievable because the man, with his erect carriage, his strong body, high cheekbones, the slightly hooded but miss-nothing green eyes, oozed sex appeal.
Startled by the directions of her thoughts, she realised it had been a long time since she’d noticed a man as a man, let alone considered whether he was sexy or not.
But there was something