Free The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum by Meredith Webber Page B

right,’ he muttered, glowering at her. ‘You’ve barely arrived in the country, you could be jet-lagged—’
    ‘And might make a mistake?’
    Another challenge but before he could meet it she spoke again.
    ‘That’s what monitors are for,’ she reminded him. ‘I fall asleep beside the crib—which, I might add, is highly unlikely—and something goes wrong then bells will ring, whistles will blow and people will come running. I’m a neonatologist, remember, this is what I do. This hospital or Giles, this is my work.’
    Again the blue eyes met his, the challenge still ripe in them.
    ‘Any other objections?’
    ‘Wait here!’ he ordered, then realised that was a mistake for the baby’s mother was already being wheeled into Recovery and the staff beginning to clean away the debris of the operation.
    ‘No, wait outside in the corridor.’ He spoke to Laya the second time, avoiding the challenging eyes and the disturbing feelings just being near the other woman was causing him. He headed for the changing rooms but once there he realised he should have showered and put on clean clothes on the flight but with Liz—would thinking of her as Dr Jones be better?—in the bedroom he’d not wanted to disturb her.
    Now, showered again, changing back into his travel clothes was unappealing and the only apparel he had in his locker was a row of white kandoras and a pile of pristine red and white checked headscarves—kept there for any time he might have to leave the hospital for an official duty.
    Not that he minded getting back into his country’s clothing. Too long in suits always made him feel edgy, but walking hospital corridors as a sheikh rather than a doctor could be an offputting experience.
    He wouldn’t wear the headscarf—no, of course he would. Both it and the black cord that held it to his head. He was home!
    He was beautiful! Liz could only stare at the apparition that had appeared before her in the corridor. Khalifa and yet not Khalifa, remote somehow in the clothes of his country, a disturbing enigma in a spotless white gown, the twist of black cord around his head covering giving the impression of a crown.
    His Highness!
    She ran her tongue over suddenly dry lips and tried for levity.
    ‘Good thing it’s you, not me, in that gear,’ she said. ‘White is not a colour for klutzes. I’d have tomato sauce stains down it in no time flat.’
    Laya, she noticed, was suddenly busy watching the baby, her head bowed as if Khalifa in his traditional dress had overawed her.
    To be honest, he’d overawed Liz as well, but it wouldn’t do to show it.
    ‘Follow me,’ he said, ignoring her tomato-sauce remark and leading them along the corridor. Laya followed with the crib and Liz brought up the rear, telling herself that staying at the hospital was the best idea she’d ever had. Her body might have behaved badly to Khalifa in civvies, but that was nothing to the rioting going on within it now.
    Stupidity, that’s what it was.
    Hormones.
    Oh, how she hoped it was just hormones.
    Although, given the impossibility of anything ever coming of her attraction to the man, providing she kept that attraction well hidden it wouldn’t matter, would it? Just another unrequited love. She’d survived that once before when her fourteen-year-old self had fallen in love with Mr Smith, the school science teacher. Smith and Jones, she’d written in tiny writing all over the covers of her physics book.
    And as she couldn’t remember all the elements of Khalifa’s name, she couldn’t write it anywhere, which was an extremely good thing.
    ‘Here,’ a soft voice called, and she turned to find her thoughts had distracted her enough for her to miss the lift foyer so Laya had to beckon her back.
    ‘She’s a klutz,’ Khalifa was saying to Laya as Liz joined them. ‘Do you know that word?’
    Laya shook her head and Khalifa proceeded to repeat the explanation Liz had given him in what seemed like another lifetime. She stood