Maggie Cox - The Sheikh's Secret Son

‘Thank you. I am relieved that it’s not as bad as I feared. All I want to do now is go home.’

‘That is completely understandable, but first you must see our physiotherapist to be given some walking aids. When you have those, you may leave. The final thing I want to do is to tell you that you’re a very fortunate young woman to have been aided by such a personage as the Sheikh of Zachariah himself.’

The doctor was hardly adept at concealing his curiosity as he peered at her more closely.

For his part, Zafir detected the man’s too interested examination of Darcy’s features straight away. Was he imagining that the delicate blonde with the angelic visage was his mistress? He didn’t know why right then, but it seriously aggravated him.

‘It won’t be necessary for you to guide us to the physiotherapist, Dr Khan. A nurse can just as easily escort us.’

‘As you wish, Your Highness.’

The doctor beamed and smiled, but Zafir didn’t miss the brief flash of anxiety that flickered across the heavily lidded eyes. He could tell the man wasn’t quite sure whether his services had pleased him or not, and no matter how admired he was in his field he wouldn’t want to risk losing the Sheikh’s patronage under any circumstances.

* * *

‘I don’t know why you thought I needed a wheelchair, Zaf—Your Highness.’ Colouring in embarrassment beneath the too astute scrutiny of Rashid, as he parked her chair by the side of his boss’s gleaming black car, she privately cursed Zafir’s insistence that she refrain from using his name because she was supposedly his subordinate.

The devastation she’d endured that day when he’d cruelly told her he didn’t want anything to do with her any more was still able to wound her grievously. It wasn’t unlike the symptoms of post-traumatic stress in that it was ever-present—it never went away. That being the case, she couldn’t—wouldn’t pretend that their association had been a casual one, no matter how high he’d risen in the meantime.

‘It’s not that difficult to manoeuvre a couple of walking sticks.’

The Sheikh’s velvety dark brows came together in a forbidding frown. ‘Why am I not surprised you would say that? I shouldn’t have forgotten how stubborn you can be. Stop making a fuss and I will help you get into the car.’

All of a sudden he clicked opened the strap that secured her and, as Rashid held open the door, lifted her bodily into the car. Carefully arranging her bandaged ankle in the footwell, he briskly fastened her seatbelt and ordered his guard to take care of the crutches. Then, without even sparing her so much as a cursory glance, he sat down next to her. Rashid climbed in next to the driver.

Once more the sensual scent of exotic agar drifted beneath Darcy’s nose, whilst the heat from her companion’s body seemed to reach out to meld with her own. Pursing her lips, she wondered forlornly if anyone had recorded how fast a woman’s heart beat when the love of her life acted as if it was a penance even to be in the same vicinity as her. Was there, in fact, a record for such a thing?

To stave off her distress, she blurted out, ‘When I get home you don’t have to come in with me. I can manage perfectly well using my walking aids.’

The man beside her turned slowly to survey her. ‘Save your breath, Darcy, and listen to me. No matter how much you try to reassure me, I make no apologies for insisting that I accompany you. It would be remiss of me to take you home after your accident and then not come in with you to ensure you have everything you need and are safe.’

Now her heart beat hard for a different reason. He was going to meet their son for the very first time. What would he say? What would he do?

Sami was a sensitive little boy and was likely to be overwhelmed by the intimidating sight of Zafir unless she prepared him first. For all her quick thinking and bravado, how on earth was she going to deal with that?

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