The Sheikh Doctor's Bride. Meredith WebberЧитать онлайн книгу.
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‘Medical Romance™ favourite Meredith Webber has penned a spellbinding and moving tale set under the hot desert sun!’
—CataRomance on
THE DESERT PRINCE’S CONVENIENT BRIDE
‘Meredith Webber has written an outstanding romantic tale that I devoured in a single sitting—moving, engrossing, romantic and absolutely unputdownable! Ms Webber peppers her story with plenty of drama, emotion and passion, and she will keep her readers entranced until the final page.’
—CataRomance on
A PREGNANT NURSE’S CHRISTMAS WISH
Books come together in many ways—a little bit here and a little bit there. One of the ‘bits’ this time has now become legend in my family. Some forty years ago my mother-in-law went to see a woman who read cards to tell the future, and this woman told her that if she went away on a trip with her widowed son and his two teenage daughters she’d never have to worry about him again.
That night the son in question phoned her from interstate, where he lived, to ask her to go to India with him and the girls. She agreed—here was the trip the cards had foretold! I joined their flight in far-off Western Australia as the tour leader, and that’s how I met my husband and the two teenagers who have become my very loved daughters.
It still gives me shivers up the spine when I realise just how little we know of the part fate must play in our lives. I do hope fate is kind to you.
Meredith Webber
MEREDITH WEBBER says of herself, ‘Once I read an article which suggested that Mills & Boon® were looking for new Medical Romance™ 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, fossicking through the Australian Outback in search of gold or opals. Having had some success in all of these endeavours, I now consider I’ve found the perfect lifestyle.’
The
Sheikh Doctor’s
Bride
Meredith Webber
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
Dear Reader
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
FAREED IBN JADYM IBN MUSTAFFAH FARUKE eyed the green country through which he travelled with distaste. Not that he didn’t appreciate green. The shiny, almost luminous green of date-palm fronds around an oasis was always a welcome sight, and contrasted brilliantly with the red desert sand through which one had to travel to see them.
But green everywhere, everything green, apart from white paint splashed haphazardly on the fence posts lining the drive down which they now travelled.
Why, in the name of all that was holy, was his uncle coming to this run-down establishment, stuck out in a swathe of green, miles from the city in which they’d been staying?
So his uncle wanted to buy a horse—wanted him, Fareed, to see the horse before the purchase—but could not the horse have come to them? Ibrahim wasn’t one to go out of his way for anything or anyone, however much he loved his horses.
But Fareed’s apprehension about what was going on with his uncle went beyond this trip to a horse stud. Something was brewing in his uncle’s devious mind, and Fareed had a disturbing suspicion that the ‘something’ was to do with him.
Why else would his uncle insist he take leave from the hospital to accompany him on this trip to Australia?
To buy a horse!
And why had Thalia, an old crone who lived somewhere in the palace compound and was said to read the future from marks in the sand, or oil poured on a cup of water, been spending so much time with his uncle prior to this trip? Thalia claimed she was a kahin, from a line of female fortune-tellers that went back into ancient times.
Surely his uncle, English educated, graduate of Oxford and with a further business degree from Harvard, didn’t still believe in the words of a soothsayer?
Fareed shook his head, sorry he was in the lead of the four cars and couldn’t ask his uncle these questions. Then something flashed past the window and soothsayers and his uncle’s devious plans were forgotten.
The horse was a dark caramel in colour, its mane nearly white. It was pounding up the slight slope of a track on the other side of the fence, and on its back, her face alight with the joy of speed, sat a slim woman, taller than most jockeys but riding with her legs tucked up, her body bent along the horse’s neck, flame-coloured hair flying out behind her—a woman at one with the animal.
A painting of the image might be called