The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum Read Online Free

could sit down and talk.
    ‘Of course! We’ve got a canteen in the courtyard, really lovely, but I suppose you’ve seen it already. I’ll just let someone know where I’ll be.’
    She stepped, carefully, around him and entered the unit, stopping to speak to one of the nurses then peering behind a screen and speaking to someone before joining him outside.
    ‘How much space do you have at this new hospital of yours?’ she asked, the little frown back between blue eyes that were now sombre.
    He glanced back at the unit, measuring it in his mind.
    ‘I’ve set aside an area, maybe twice the size of what you have here,’ he told her, and was absurdly pleased when the frown disappeared.
    ‘That’s great,’ she declared, clearly delighted. ‘We can have decent, reclining armchairs for the visiting parents and a separate room where mothers can express milk or breastfeed instead of being stuck behind a tatty screen. Beginning breastfeeding is particularly hard for our mothers. The babies have been getting full tummies with absolutely no effort on their part because the milk comes down a tube. Then suddenly they’re expected to work for it, and it’s frustrating for both parties.’
    She was leading him along a corridor, striding along and talking at the same time, her high-heeled strappy sandals making her nearly as tall as he was.
    A pregnant woman in high-heeled strappy sandals?
    A doctor at work in high-heeled strappy sandals?
    Not that her legs didn’t look fantastic in them…
    What was he thinking!
    It was the pregnancy thing that had thrown him. Too close to home—too many memories surfacing. If only he’d been more involved with Zara and the pregnancy, if only he’d been home more often, if only…
    ‘Here,’ his guide declared, walking into the leafy courtyard hung with glorious flowering orchids. ‘This, as you can see, is a special place. Mr Giles, who left the bequest for the hospital, was a passionate orchid grower and these orchids are either survivors from his collection or have been bred from his plants.’
    Khalifa looked around, then shook his head.
    ‘I did notice the courtyard on one of my tours of the hospital, but didn’t come into it. It’s like an oasis of peace and beauty in a place that is very busy and often, I imagine, very sombre. I should have thought of something similar. I have been considering practicality too much.’
    His companion smiled at him.
    ‘Just don’t take space out of my unit to arrange a courtyard,’ she warned. ‘Now, would you like tea or coffee, or perhaps a cold drink?’
    ‘Let me get it, Dr Jones,’ he said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. ‘You’ll have…?’
    ‘I’m limiting myself to one coffee a day so I make it a good one. Coffee, black and strong and two sugars, and it’s Liz,’ she replied, confusing him once again.
    ‘Liz?’ he repeated.
    ‘Short for Elizabeth—Liz, not Dr Jones.’
    He turned away to buy the coffees, his mind repeating the short name, while some primitive instinct sprang to life inside him, warning him of something…
    But what?
    ‘Two coffees, please. Strong, black and two sugars in both of them.’
    He gave his order, and paid the money, but his mind was trying to grasp at the fleeting sensation that had tapped him on the shoulder.
    Because of their nomadic lifestyle in an often hostile country, an instinct for danger was bred into him and all his tribal people, but this woman couldn’t represent a danger, so that couldn’t be it.
    But as he took the coffees from the barista, the sensation came again.
    It couldn’t be because they drank their coffee the same way! Superstition might be alive and well in his homeland, but he’d never believed in any of the tales his people told of mischievous djinns interfering in people’s lives, or of a conflagration of events foretelling disaster. Well, not entirely! And a lot of people probably drank their coffee strong and black with two sugars.
    Besides, he only