Defiant in the Desert

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘Lets just cover you up, shall we?’ questioned the nurse briskly, her cheeks growing bright pink as she tugged the sheet back in place.

  Isobel felt similarly hot and bothered as she realised that her handsome boss was completely naked beneath the sheet. That, unless she was very much mistaken, the sheet seemed to be moving of its own accord around his groin area. She wasn’t the most experienced cookie in the tin but even she knew what that meant. It was a shockingly intimate experience, which started a heated prickling of her skin in response. And that was a first.

  Because—unlike just about every other female with a pulse—she was immune to Tariq al Hakam and his sex appeal. His hard, muscular body left her completely cold—as did those hawk-like features and the ebony glitter of his dark-lashed eyes. She didn’t go for men who were self-professed playboys—sexy, dangerous men who knew exactly the kind of effect they had on women. Who could walk away from the women who loved them without a backward glance. In fact, those were precisely the men she tended to despise. The ones her mother had warned her against. Men like her own father—who could shrug off emotion and responsibility so easily...

  Composing herself with a huge effort of will, she turned to the nurse. ‘What happens now?’ she asked but Tariq answered before the woman in uniform had a chance to.

  ‘I get off this damned bed and you drive me to the office. That’s what happens,’ he snapped. But as he tried to sit up the stupid shooting pain made him slump back against the bed again, and he groaned and then glared at her again as if it was all her fault.

  ‘Will you please lie still, Prince al Hakam?’ ordered the nurse crisply, before turning to Isobel. ‘The doctors would like to keep the Sheikh in for twenty-four hours’ observation.’

  ‘Izzy,’ said Tariq, and as Isobel turned to him his black eyes glinted with the kind of steely determination she recognised so well. ‘Sort this out for me, will you? There’s no way I’m staying in this damned hospital for a minute longer.’

  For a moment Isobel didn’t speak. There were many times when she admired her boss—because nobody could deny his drive, his determination, his unerring nose for success. But his arrogance and sheer self-belief sometimes had the potential to be his downfall. Like now.

  ‘Look, this isn’t some business deal you’re masterminding,’ she said crossly. ‘This is your health we’re talking about—and you’re not the expert here, Tariq, the doctors and nurses are. They don’t want to keep you in because it’s some sort of fun—I can’t imagine it’s much fun having you as a patient—but because it’s necessary. And if you don’t start listening to them and doing what they say, then I’m going to walk out of here right now and leave you to get on with it.’

  There was a pause as Tariq’s eyes narrowed angrily. ‘But I have meetings—’

  ‘I know precisely what meetings you have,’ she interrupted, her voice gentling suddenly as she registered the strain which was etched on his face. ‘I organise your diary, don’t I? I’ll sort everything out back at the office and you’re not to worry about a thing. Do you...?’ She found herself staring down at the white hospital sheet which now seemed to be stretched uncomfortably tight across the muscular expanse of his torso. ‘Do you want me to get hold of some pyjamas for you?’

  ‘Pyjamas?’ His mouth curved into a smile which mocked her almost as much as the lazy glitter of his eyes. ‘You think I’m the kind of man who wears pyjamas, do you, Izzy?’

  Inexplicably, her heart began to pound with unwilling excitement—and Isobel was furious at her reaction. Had he seen it—and was that why his smile had now widened into an arrogant smirk? ‘Your choice of nightwear isn’t something I’ve given a lot of thought to,’ she answered crossly. ‘But I’ll take that as a no. Is there anything else you want?’

  Tariq winced as he recalled the blood-stained and crumpled clothing which was stuffed into a plastic bag in the locker next to his bed. ‘Just bring me some clean clothes, can you? And a razor?’

  ‘Of course. And as soon as the doctors give you the thumbs-up I’ll come and get you. Is that okay?’

  There was a pause as their gazes met. ‘You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?’ he questioned, closing his eyes as a sudden and powerful fatigue washed over him. It was like no feeling he’d ever experienced and it left him feeling debilitated. Weak. The last thing he wanted was for his assistant to see him looking weak. ‘Just go, will you, Izzy?’ he added wearily.

  Slipping silently from the room, Isobel walked until she stepped out into the brightening light of the spring morning. Sucking in a deep breath, she felt a powerful sense of relief washing over her. Tariq was alive. That was the main thing. He might have had a nasty knock to the head, but hopefully he hadn’t done any lasting damage. And yet... She bit her lip as she climbed into her car and started up the engine, her thoughts still in turmoil. How alone he had looked on that narrow hospital bed.

  The loud tooting of a car made her glance into the driving mirror, where she caught a glimpse of her pale and unwashed face. A touch of reality began to return.

  Alone?

  Tariq?

  Why, there were innumerable women who would queue around the block to put paid to that particular myth with no more incentive than the elevation of one black and arrogant eyebrow and that mocking smile. Tariq had plenty of people to take care of him, she reminded herself. He didn’t need her.

  Arriving back in London, she spent the rest of the day cancelling meetings and dealing with the calls which flooded in from his associates. She worked steadily until eight, then went over to his apartment—a vast penthouse in a tall building which overlooked Green Park. Although she held a spare set of keys, she’d only ever been there once before, when she had delivered a package which the Sheikh had been expecting and which had arrived very late at the office, while she’d still been working. Rather than having it couriered round to him, Isobel had decided to take it there herself.

  It had been one of the most embarrassing occasions of her life, because a tousle-headed Tariq had answered the door wearing what was clearly a hastily pulled on silk dressing gown. His face had been faintly flushed as he’d taken the package from her, and she hadn’t needed to hear the breathless female voice calling his name to realise that he had company.

  But it had been his almost helpless shrug which had infuriated her more than anything. The way his black eyes had met hers and he’d bestowed on her one of his careless smiles. As if he was inviting her to join him in a silent conspiracy of wondering why he was just so irresistible to women. She remembered thrusting the package into his hands and stomping off home to an empty apartment, cursing the arrogance of the Playboy Prince.

  Closing her mind to the disturbing memory, Isobel let herself into the apartment using the complicated trio of keys. Experience made her listen for a moment. But everything was silent—which meant that his servants had all gone home for the evening.

  In his dressing room she found jeans, cashmere sweaters and a leather jacket—and added a warm scarf. But when it came to selecting some boxer shorts from the silken pile which were heaped neatly in a drawer, she found herself blushing for the second time that day. How...intimate it was to be rifling through Tariq’s underwear. Underwear which had clung to the oiled silk of his olive skin...

  Frustrated with the wayward trajectory of her thoughts, she threw the clothes into an overnight bag and let herself out. Then she phoned the hospital, to be told that the Sheikh’s condition was satisfactory and that if he continued to improve then he could be discharged the next day.

  But the press had got wind of his crash—despite the reassuring statement which Isobel had asked his PR people to issue. Fabulously wealthy injured sheikhs always provided fascinating copy, and by the time she arrived back at the hospital the following morning there were photographers hanging around the main entrance.

  Tariq
had been transferred to a different side ward, and Isobel walked in to see a small gaggle of doctors gathered around the foot of his bed. There was an unmistakable air of tension in the room.

  She shot a glance at her boss, who was sitting up in bed, unshaven and unashamedly bare-chested—the vulnerability of yesterday nothing but a distant memory. His black eyes glittered with displeasure as he saw her, and his voice was cool.

  ‘Ah, Izzy. At last.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Damned right there is.’

  A tall, bespectacled man detached himself from the group, extending his hand and introducing himself as the consultant. ‘You’re his partner?’ he asked Isobel, as he glanced down at the overnight bag she was carrying.

  Isobel went bright red, and she couldn’t miss the narrow-eyed look which Tariq angled in her direction. But for some reason she was glad that she wasn’t the same wild-haired scarecrow she’d been in the middle of the night. That she’d taken the care to wash and tame her hair and put on her favourite russet-coloured jacket.

  Just because the Sheikh never looked at her in the way he looked at other women it didn’t mean she was immune to a little masculine attention from time to time, did it? She gave the doctor a quick smile. ‘No, Doctor. I’m Isobel Mulholland. The Sheikh’s assistant.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could manage to talk some sense into your boss, Isobel,’ said the consultant, meeting her eyes with a resigned expression. ‘He’s had a nasty bang to the head and a general shock to the system—but he seems to think that he can walk out of here and carry on as normal.’ The doctor continued to hold her gaze. ‘It sounds like a punishing regime at the best of times, but especially so in the circumstances. Unless he agrees to take things easy for the next week—’

  ‘I can’t,’ interrupted Tariq testily, wondering if his perception had been altered by the bump on the head he’d received. Was the doctor flirting with Isobel? And was she—the woman he’d never known as anything other than a brisk and efficient machine—flirting back? He had never found her in the least bit attractive himself, but Tariq was unused to being overlooked for another man, and his mouth thinned as he subjected the medic to an icy look. ‘I need to fly to the States tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You need rest,’ contradicted the consultant. ‘Complete rest. Away from work and the world—and away from the media, who have been plaguing my office all morning. You’ve been driving yourself too hard and you need to recuperate. Otherwise I’ll have no alternative but to keep you in.’

  ‘You can’t keep me in against my will,’ objected Tariq.

  Isobel recognised that a stand-off between the two men was about to be reached—and she knew that Tariq would refuse to back down if it got to that stage. Diplomatically, she offered the consultant another polite smile. ‘Does he need any particular medical care, Doctor?’

  ‘Will you stop talking about me as if I’m not here?’ growled Tariq.

  ‘Just calm and quiet observation,’ said the doctor. ‘And a guarantee that he won’t go anywhere near his office for at least seven days.’

  Isobel’s mind began to race. He could go to a clinic, yes—but even the most discreet of clinics could never be relied on to be that discreet, could they? Especially when they were dealing with billionaire patients who were being hunted by the tabloids. Tariq didn’t need expensive clinics where people would no doubt seek to exploit his wealth and influence. He needed that thing which always seemed to elude him.

  Peace.

  She thought about the strange flash of vulnerability she’d seen on his face and an idea began to form in her mind.

  ‘I have a little cottage in the countryside,’ she said slowly, looking straight into a pair of black and disbelieving eyes. ‘You could come and stay there for a week, if you like. My mother used to be a nurse, and I picked up some basic first aid from her. I could keep my eye on you, Tariq.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘WHERE THE HELL are you going, Izzy?’

  For a moment Isobel didn’t answer Tariq’s growled question as she turned the small car into a narrow country lane edged with budding hedgerows. Why couldn’t he just settle down and relax—and be grateful she’d managed to get him out of the hospital? Maybe even sit back and appreciate the beauty of the spring day instead of haranguing her all the time?

  It wasn’t until she was bowling along at a steady pace that she risked a quick glance and saw the still-dreadful pallor of his face, which showed no signs of shifting. He was in pain, she reminded herself—and besides, he was a man who rarely expressed gratitude.

  Already she’d had to bite back her words several times that morning. They had left by a staff exit at the back of the hospital, and although he had initially refused to travel in a wheelchair she had persuaded him that it would help elude any waiting press. Which of course, it had. The photographers were looking for the muscular stride of a powerful sheikh—not a man being pushed along by a woman. She remembered her mother telling her that nobody ever looked at people in wheelchairs—how society was often too busy to care about those who were not able-bodied. And it seemed that her mother was right.

  ‘You know very well where I’m going,’ she answered calmly. ‘To my cottage in the country, where you are going to recuperate after your crash. That was the agreement we made with the doctor before he would agree to discharge you. Remember?’

  He made a small sound of displeasure beneath his breath. His head was throbbing, his throat felt as dry as parchment, and now Izzy was being infuriatingly stubborn. ‘That’s the doctor you were flirting with so outrageously?’ he questioned coolly.

  Isobel’s eyes narrowed as she acknowledged her boss’s accusation. In truth, she’d been so worried about him that she’d barely given a thought to the crinkly-eyed consultant. But even if she had fallen in love at first sight and decided to slip the doctor her phone number—well, it was none of Tariq’s business. Wasn’t she doing enough for him already, without him attempting to police her private life for her?

  ‘And what if I was?’ she retorted.

  He shrugged. ‘I would have thought that extremely unprofessional behaviour on his part.’

  ‘I hardly think that you’re in any position to pass judgement on flirting,’ she murmured.

  Tariq drummed his fingers against one tense thigh. It was not the response he’d been expecting. A firm assertion that the doctor had been wasting his time would have been infinitely more desirable. Isobel was resolutely single, and that was the way he liked it. It meant that she could devote herself to his needs and be there whenever he wanted her.

  ‘I thought you only told him all that stuff about taking me to your cottage to get him off my back,’ he objected.

  ‘But that would have been dishonest.’

  ‘Do you always have to be so damned moral?’

  ‘One of us has to have morals.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that supposed to be a criticism?’

  ‘No, Tariq,’ she answered calmly. ‘It’s merely an observation.’

  He stared at her set profile and inexplicably began to notice the way the pale spring sunshine was picking out the lights in her hair, turning it a glowing shade of amber. Had the doctor also noticed its subtle fire? he wondered. Would that explain his behaviour? ‘I don’t know why you’re dragging me out to the back of beyond,’ he said, ‘when I can rest perfectly well at home.’

  ‘In central London?’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘With the press baying at your door like hounds and all your ex-girlfriends lining up to offer to come and mop your brow for you? I don’t think so. You’ll be much safer at my cottage. Anyway, it’s a done deal. I’ve informed the office that you’ll be incommunicado for a week, and that all calls are to come through me. Fiona in the PR office is perfectly capable of running things until we get
back. I’ve had your housekeeper pack a week’s worth of clothes, which are being couriered down. And I haven’t told anybody about your exact whereabouts.’

  ‘My brother—’

  ‘Except for your brother,’ she concurred, remembering the brief conversation she’d had earlier that day with the ruler of Khayarzah. ‘I telephoned the palace and spoke to the King myself—told him that you’re on the mend but that you needed to recuperate. He wanted you flown to Khayarzah, but I said that you would be fine with me.’ She shot him a glance. ‘That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ he answered moodily, but as usual she had done exactly the right thing. The last thing he needed was the formality of palace life—with all the strictures that came with it. He’d done his level best to escape from the attendant attention which came with being the brother of the King—a role which had been thrust on him when his brother had suddenly inherited the crown. A role which had threatened his freedom—something he had always guarded jealously. Because wasn’t his freedom the only good thing to have emerged from the terrible isolation of his childhood?

  He fixed her with a cool and curious stare. ‘You seem to have it all worked out, Izzy.’

  ‘Well, that’s what you pay me for.’ She glanced in the driving mirror and let a speedy white van overtake them before starting to speak again. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened? About why one of the most careful drivers I know should crash his car?’

  Tariq closed his eyes. Wasn’t it frustrating that a split-second decision could impact so dramatically on your life? If he hadn’t been beguiled by a pair of blue eyes and a dynamite body then he wouldn’t be facing the rather grim prospect of being stuck in some remote cottage with his assistant for a week.