Secret Sheikh, Secret Baby. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER THREE

      HE WAS waiting for her.

      Karim stood as she walked into the hotel lounge, and his decision as to his choice of date for the night was instantly confirmed as the right one.

      She was wearing a pale grey woollen dress, a modest dress—yet it clung nicely to her trim waist, and Karim noticed the scooped neckline. It accentuated her full bust…

      He had idly wondered what she would achieve in an hour. Used to summoning mistresses, he had women on tap and permanently ready. This one was not used to his ways, and yet she had done exceptionally well! No one would possibly guess that just a short while ago she had been saving a life in the driving rain.

      Her hair, that had been tied back in all of the short time he had known her, was loose now. Soft and newly washed, it fell over her shoulders. Her long, slim legs were encased in stockings, her feet in dark grey stilettos.

      Yes, he was glad of his choice of company for the night. But as he placed his hand on her elbow and guided her through the restaurant, and she shot forward at the slight contact, he knew it was going to be a long one! Unashamedly he had checked her CV. He knew that she was twenty-six and single, yet she was acting like a gauche teenager on her first date.

      Oh, well, Karim decided glancing at his watch. If they weren’t in bed by eleven he could be at Mandy’s by twelve!

      He’d give her three hours!

      The menu was impossible. Oh, there was plenty that at first glance she liked, but sitting opposite Karim made the simplest decision impossible. He was wearing a different suit, had used his hour to shower and change too. Felicity could see that—and smell it. She was somewhat relieved and a little irritated too when his phone rang. He answered it, and after a brief apology spoke to whoever was on the line in rapid Arabic.

      ‘I am sorry about that.’ He put his phone down, and then picked it up again and turned it off. ‘That was an old friend and colleague of mine. He is working at the hospital the casualties were taken to—he always speaks in our own language.’

      ‘How are they?’ Felicity asked, glad now that he had taken the call, but worried as to what she might hear.

      ‘The mother has regained consciousness. She had another seizure on arrival, but she is doing well.’

      ‘And the baby?’

      ‘Is in Theatre now,’ Karim said. ‘It will take a while, but the surgeons are very hopeful.’

      ‘Did he regain consciousness?’

      ‘Yes!’ Karim nodded. ‘They resuscitated with fluids. There is one problem…’ He paused for just a moment and Felicity held her breath. ‘He’s a she!’

      ‘Oh!’ Felicity blinked, remembering the blue blanket. ‘Well, there’s a reminder never to assume!’ She smiled, and he did too. He had lovely white even teeth, with just a tiny irregularity. But even that made him more exquisite; this was no capped, manufactured smile, and he really was, as she had first realised, devastating.

      With only brief consultation he took care of the wine and the ordering, and was such pleasant company that by the time she had struggled through the entrée and moved onto the main Felicity was almost able to relax.

      But not fully—because always, always her mind was on the end of night, or the next night, or the next.

      This was a date.

      A real one.

      And real ones—good ones—led to more dates…

      ‘You may find things different in Zaraqua,’ Karim warned her, after he had pressed her about her work and she had told him how she was a strong advocate for natural childbirth with minimum intervention. ‘We have top-class facilities and equipment, and we do tend to use them.’

      ‘I have thought about that,’ Felicity said, ‘and I’m not looking to change the world. I work in a low-risk birthing centre at the moment—hopefully I’ll come away from Zaraq more informed, which can only be good.’

      ‘You have an open mind.’ Karim smiled. ‘You would not make a good surgeon.’

      ‘I’m a good midwife, though,’ Felicity said, and smiled back.

      ‘Did you tell your mother you were staying here?’

      ‘No!’ Felicity said. ‘I just told her I had found somewhere.’ She saw his slight frown. ‘She’d only worry more if I told her about the crash.’

      ‘It must be hard, having a parent who worries so.’

      ‘It is,’ Felicity admitted, and thanked the waiter as her main course was taken away. ‘And I’m still not sure if I’m doing the right thing, going overseas. My sister hasn’t been well for a couple of years,’ she explained. ‘She’s doing fine now, but there have been a lot of expenses. This way I can really tackle them. Only…’ She hesitated. The practical solution she had come up with for her family had been a sensible one, but there was an emotional side to it too—one she had never shared and certainly not with a stranger.

      ‘Only…?’ Karim checked.

      ‘I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing—I’m not sure how they’ll manage. Georgie, my sister, has an eating disorder. She’s doing brilliantly now, though.’ She swallowed uncomfortably, nervous of voicing her innermost fears. ‘I’m just worried that my leaving will set her back. But I don’t really have a choice.’

      ‘Georgie has,’ Karim said as a white chocolate mousse drizzled in hot raspberry sauce was placed in front of her. ‘She can choose to stay well or not—you cannot do that for her.’

      He was right—of course he was right—only it wasn’t so straightforward.

      ‘You don’t understand…’

      ‘I can assure you I do!’ Karim responded. ‘I know all there is to know about duty and family. And I know how it feels to be the strong one.’

      Karim had declined dessert, and was working his way through a cheese platter. Now her dessert bowl was empty, it merited just a little look from her. He pushed the platter forward and, to her own surprise, instead of refusing and saying she was fine, Felicity took a cracker and helped herself.

      ‘What about your father?’ Karim asked, watching as the cracker paused midway to her mouth.

      ‘He died a few years ago.’

      ‘I’m sorry. That must have been hard for you all.’

      She stared across the table at him, stared into black, assessing eyes that gave absolutely nothing away—eyes that judged but were somehow not judging. Instead of taking the easy option and accepting his condolences, after a brief hesitation she responded.

      ‘Don’t be sorry. He caused this mess. What about your family?’

      He gave a brief shrug. ‘There is not much to tell.’

      ‘Oh?’

      He stabbed a piece of cheese with his knife and smeared it on some bread, then took a sliver of quince jelly and topped it with that. He handed it to her and then did the same for himself.

      Karim never usually shared—he was generous with gifts, he just never shared what was his.

      But tonight he did.

      ‘I have two brothers. My mother lives here in London—my father is in Zaraq.’

      ‘Are they divorced?’ For a second she was sure his face tightened, and she thought she must have said the wrong thing. It was an entirely natural assumption—just