The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum (4 page)

‘And you?’

The question was gentle, as if she sensed the emotion he felt when talking of his people.

‘My mother was from the south. My brother’s mother was from the north, so when she grew old, my father took a second wife—actually, I think she was the third but that’s not talked of often. Anyway, for political reasons he took a wife from a southern tribe, so my ties are to the south. My wife, too, was a southerner…’

He stopped, aware he’d spoken to no one about Zara since her death, and none of his friends had used her name—aware, no doubt, that it was a subject he wouldn’t discuss.

‘Your wife,’ Liz Jones prompted, even gentler now.

‘She died in childbirth. The baby was premature, and she, too, died.’

Liz heard the agony in his voice, and nothing on this earth could have prevented her resting her hand on his.

‘So of course you want the unit. It will be the very best we can achieve.’ She squeezed his fingers, just a comforting pressure. ‘I know it won’t bring back your wife or child, but I promise you it will be a fitting memorial to them and be something you’ll be proud of.’

Then, feeling utterly stupid, she removed her hand and tucked it in her lap lest it be tempted to touch him again.

This time the silence between them went beyond awkward and, aware she’d overstepped a boundary of some kind, Liz had no idea how to ease the tension. She leaned forward, intending to take a drink from the cabinet—but as she’d already pointed out, spilling fizzy orange soda all over the seat and undoubtedly splashing her new boss probably wasn’t the answer.

Instead, she pulled one of the information leaflets he’d given her from her capacious handbag and settled back into the corner to read it. If he wanted the silence broken, let him break it.

He didn’t, and, determined not to start blithering again, she refused to comment when the car sailed past the wide road that led to the international air terminal. Sailed past the road to the domestic one as well, then turned into another road that led to high wire fences and a gate guarded by a man in a security uniform.

To Liz’s surprise, the man at the gate saluted as the gates swung open, and the limo took them out across wide tarmac to stop beside a very large plane, its sleek lines emphasised by the streaks and swirls of black and gold paint on its side. It took her a moment to recognise the decoration as Arabic script and she could be silent no longer.

‘What does it say?’ she asked, totally enthralled by the flowing lines, the curves and squiggles.

‘Najme,’ her host replied, and before she could ask more, he was out of the limo and speaking to some kind of official who waited at the bottom of the steps.

The driver opened the door on Liz’s side and she slid out, not as elegantly as her companion had but, thankfully, without falling flat on her face.

‘This gentleman will stamp your passport and one of my pilots will check your luggage,’ Khalifa told her, all business now. ‘It is a precaution he has to take, I’m sure you understand.’

Totally out of her depth, Liz just nodded, grateful really that she had no decisions to make. She handed over her passport, then hovered near the bottom of the steps until a young man came down and invited her inside.

‘Khalifa will bring your passport and the pilot will put your luggage on board,’ he told her. ‘I am Saif, Khalifa’s assistant. On flights I act as steward. He prefers not to have strangers around.’

Liz smiled to herself, certain the young man had no idea just how much he’d told her about his master. But there was no time to dwell on these little details for she’d reached the top of the steps, and entered what seemed like another world.

There was nothing flashy about the interior of the plane, just opulent comfort, with wide, well-padded armchairs in off-white leather, colourful cushions stacked on them, and more, larger, flat cushions on the floor near the walls of the aircraft. A faint perfume hung in the air, something she couldn’t place—too delicate to be musk, more roses with a hint of citrus.

‘Sit here,’ Saif said, then he waited until she sank obediently into one of the armchairs before showing her where the seat belt was and how a small table swung out from beside the chair and a monitor screen opened up on it.

‘You will find a list of the movies and other programmes in the book in the pocket on the other side of the chair, and you can use your laptop once we’re in the air. Press this button if there’s anything you require and I will do my best to help you.’

Saif turned away, and Liz realised Khalifa had entered the plane. He came towards her, enquired politely about her comfort, handed back her passport then took the chair on the other side of the plane.

‘All this space to carry two people?’ she asked, unable to stop herself revealing her wonder in the experience.

‘It can be transformed into many configurations,’ Khalifa replied. ‘The flight time is fifteen hours, and I thought you might be more comfortable in a bed, so the back of the cabin is set up for your convenience.’

‘With a bed?’

It went beyond Scheherazade’s fantastic stories, and now Liz forgot about hiding her wonder.

‘I’ve read about executive jets, but never thought I’d experience anything like this. May I have a look?’

Was it the excitement in her voice that stirred the man? She had no idea, but at least he’d smiled, and as she felt a slight hitch in her breathing, she told herself it was better that he remained remote and unreachable—far better that he didn’t smile.

‘Wait until we’re in the air. The aircraft door is closed and I assume the pilot is preparing for take-off. Because we have to compete with both the international and the domestic flights for take-off slots, we can’t delay. But while we’re on the ground, Saif could get you a drink. Perhaps champagne to celebrate your first flight in an executive jet?’

‘I can celebrate with orange juice,’ Liz said, and although Khalifa was sure he saw her right hand move towards her stomach, she drew back before she touched it. The mystery of her pregnancy—or her attitude to it—deepened. He’d seen a lot of Liz Jones in the last ten days, and not by even the slightest sign had she acknowledged the baby she carried.

Neither had she ever mentioned the baby’s father, and although he had a totally irrational desire to know about this unknown man, he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

Oh, he’d thought of a dozen ways he could bring it up.
Does the baby’s father not mind your leaving now? If you’re still in my country, would the baby’s father like to fly to Al Tinine for the birth?

But every time he thought of a question, he told himself it was none of his business and quashed the desire to ask.

And it
was
none of his business, apart from the fact that the woman was coming to work for him and he’d have liked to know what made her tick. Having seen her in action in the Giles neonatal unit, he knew she was deeply involved with all her little charges, and genuinely caring, which made her apparent detachment from her own pregnancy all the more puzzling.

An enigma, that’s what she was.

Saif had returned with freshly squeezed orange juice for them both and she smiled as she thanked him—smiled the kind of smile he’d seen her use around the unit, the smile she gave the other staff, the parents and the babies.

And just as irrationally as his desire to know about her baby’s father came the thought that he’d like her to smile like that at him…

She’d pulled some papers out of the bag she’d carried on board, and as she sipped her juice she was studying them.

In order to avoid conversation?

The thought aggravated him. Most women he’d had aboard his plane had been only too keen to talk to him.

But, then, most women he’d had aboard his plane had been diversions—pleasant playmates—not work colleagues, and pregnant work colleagues at that.

And, come to think of it, the days of pleasant playmates were long gone, too.

Though surely the woman had
some
conversation.

‘The baby in the unit, Alexandra,’ he began, deciding he’d start one himself. ‘Was anything sorted out for her?’

As the delightful smile flashed across Liz Jones’s face he regretted his impulse, because having had it directed at him once, he immediately wanted to see her smile again, to keep her smiling.

‘Alexandra’s grandmother turned up. It was like a miracle. The woman was from Melbourne and her daughter had taken off around Australia, backpacking with a group of friends. Her mother, Rose her name is, suspected there was something wrong with her daughter, who’d been moody and unhappy even while she was planning her trip. It was only when Rose saw something on the television about Alexandra that she began to put the pieces of the puzzle together.’

Khalifa tried to picture the scenario. In his family, many of the women still lived together, three generations, sometime more, and other women in the family visited every day for breakfast or coffee. His grandmother would have picked up a pregnancy in an instant.

‘Was this daughter living with her mother?’ he asked, intrigued now. ‘Or seeing her regularly? Would the mother not have noticed her pregnancy?’

He won another smile, only a small one but still it felt like a victory.

‘Her daughter had always been big, and had put on more weight, but she hadn’t been obviously pregnant before she’d left on the trip. She’d kept in contact with her mother, so Rose knew she’d been with her friends in Brisbane at the time Alexandra was found, but left almost immediately afterwards. By the time Rose saw the appeal for information, the daughter was in Central Australia somewhere, and, from photos sent on the mobile phone, considerably thinner.’

‘And this Rose contacted you?’

‘She phoned the hospital while the programme was still running on her television. She’d tried to phone her daughter but couldn’t get through, but Rose turned out to be a determined woman and no grandchild of hers was going to be brought up in care. She offered to have a DNA test the next day and get the lab to send the results straight to the hospital, but even before she knew for certain, she was on a plane to Brisbane.’

‘And she
is
the grandmother?’

Was he really so interested in one tiny baby, Liz wondered, or was he talking to divert her as the plane was rising smoothly into the sky? She had no idea, but Rose and Alexandra’s story was a good one, so she continued to explain.

‘She not only is, but she’s a force to be reckoned with. She slashed her way through all the red tape, parried any objections and took her grandchild back to Melbourne yesterday. She says it’s up to her daughter to decide what they tell Alexandra—she’s keeping her name, too—but Rose is more than happy to bring the infant up as her own.’

‘So, a happy ending all round,’ Khalifa said with a broad smile, and Liz forgot about toes curling because this smile was enough to make her entire body spark and fizz in a most unseemly manner.

She’d heard about physical attraction but had obviously never experienced it, because this was something entirely new, and entirely ridiculous because she was going to be working with this man and couldn’t go around all sparky and fizzy every time he smiled.

Although perhaps he wouldn’t smile too often!

‘It
was
a happy ending,’ she said, ‘and a great relief as far as I am concerned as I’d have hated to go away leaving Alexandra in limbo.’ She hesitated, then the words she knew she shouldn’t say came out anyway. ‘It’s not a very comfortable place, limbo!’

She turned her attention back to the papers in on lap, although she knew their contents by heart. She hadn’t needed to check out neonatal units on the internet, as she’d always kept up with latest developments, but she didn’t want to get anything wrong or miss out on something that might work in Al Tinine.

Al Tinine…If Najme meant star, did Tinine also have a meaning? She pulled out the little table Saif had shown her and set down her file on the new unit, digging into her bag for the brochures on the country, certain there’d be an explanation somewhere.

She could ask.

But asking meant starting another conversation and having a conversation meant looking at him, and while she was looking at him he might smile and…

Klutz!

As far as she could remember, she’d never been a mental klutz, confining her clumsiness to the physical, but now her mind was running wild and bumping into things and losing the plot completely.

Could she put it down to a slight release from the grief and tension of the last few months?

She had no idea but hopefully it would sort itself out before too long and return to the focussed, professional brain she would need to do her job.

And
to work out what was going to happen to the poor baby!

Surreptitiously, hiding her hand under the papers still resting on what was left of her lap, she gave it a pat, mentally reassuring it that things would sort themselves out, though what things, and quite how, she had no idea. Oliver was, after all, the father of the baby, and should he want it, and be fit enough to care for it, then all would be well, but there were too many uncertainties to even consider the poor thing’s future at the moment so, to distract herself from the depression she was teetering towards, she forgot about not talking to Khalifa.

‘The name, Tinine, does it, too, mean something?’

Of course he
had
to smile!

And now she was reasonably close to him, she could see a twinkle in the depths of his dark eyes.

A very beguiling twinkle.

Fizz, spark, spark, fizz—surely pregnant women shouldn’t feel this level of physical attraction!

‘You will have to wait and see,’ he replied, and the promise in his voice made her physical reactions worse—far worse—though all the man was discussing was the name of his country, not some riotous sexual encounter in the back cabin of the plane.

Was it a double bed?

Queen size?

King?

Her wayward mind was throwing up the questions and it took all her determination and discipline to pull it back into line.