The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3)

by Leslie North

  Malid and Nassir got their arms around their father. He grumbled a protest, but nothing more, and they picked him up as if he weighted nothing. Nigella hurried to the front doors to throw them open for him.

  Calling out, Malid shouted, “Mr. Michaels, after the storm passes, please escort my mother to the hospital, and have Hassan send someone to find our brother, Adilan. He should be there as well.”

  Outside, the wind had picked up. Nigella smelled the dry warmth of the desert and the bite of sand stung her cheeks. She could already see the sky darkening to brown in the west. “How long?” she asked Malid. She yanked open the doors to the truck—it was an extended cab. Malid and Nassir settled Nimr in the back seat, Nigella climbed in with him and fastened his seatbelt and hers. She took Nimr’s hand in hers—his pulse seemed erratic, but he was still aware and grumbling, telling everyone there was no need for such fuss.

  Nigella fixed a stare on him. “Do you really want to die and leave Malid in charge?”

  He frowned at her and said, his voice gravely, “You are impertinent.”

  “So I’ve been told.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a small bottle of aspirin.” Opening it, she dug one out. “Chew and swallow. It’ll taste horrible, but it’s the best think for heart attack and that’s my guess for what you’re having. If it’s not, it’s not a stroke and the aspirin won’t hurt.” Nimr stared at her. She raised her eyebrows. “It’s your choice about the dying part—but I think your boys are trying to keep you around.”

  Still grumbling about Western women who didn’t know their place, Nimr took the aspirin and chewed. Nigella glanced out the window. The sand made spitting noises as it hit the vehicle, and the sky had darkened even more, leaving the sun a red ball in the dirty sky. She found the headscarves Nassir had said he had in his car—tucked into a plastic bag. She dug one out for herself, then one for Nimr. He grumbled even more and pulled it from her hands, but his fingers trembled. She took it from him and began to put it in place as best she could.

  Malid and Nassir had had a brief argument over who would drive, but Malid had won simply by climbing into the driver’s seat and buckling in. Nassir was forced to jump into the passenger’s side before Malid took off with a squeal of tires.

  Gulping down a breath, Nigella figured this would be a wild ride, but Malid navigated his way with almost an instinct for how to stay on the road. She didn’t bother him with questions, but when it became almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of the car, she turned her attention back to Nimr. He, too, kept his eyes closed. His breathing was fast and shallow. Sweat stood out on his forehead.

  Nigella felt a stare on her. She wet her lips and looked up and met Malid’s stare in the rear view mirror—for once he wasn’t the cocky, arrogant man. He looked a worried son. And then he had to look back at the road.

  The truck jerked to a stop. Nigella braced herself and started to ask what had happened. But Nassir and Malid jumped from the truck and came around to get their father out—they had to be at the hospital.

  Above the howl of the wind, Malid yelled to Nigella, “Go inside. Tell them what’s happened.”

  Nigella fumbled with her seatbelt, got it off, struggled with the door, and stepped out—the wind almost slammed her back. She grabbed her flapping scarf and got one end over her mouth. Hunched over, she ran for the brightest light, hoping that was the emergency room light from glass doors. It was. The double doors opened for her and closed, and then an interior set opened. She stepped back into a calm world, and got out the words, “Heart attack. Sheikh Adjalane.”

  The staff jumped as if she’d hit them with a cattle prod. A gurney appeared, nurses rushed for the doors. Malid came in with Nassir, their father held between them, Malid coughing form the sand dust, and Nassir’s face hidden by his headscarf.

  A flurry of activity erupted. Nimr was settled on the gurney, IV bags appeared along with monitors and cuffs and other equipment, and just as fast Nimr was whisked away.

  Rubbing her arms, Nigella stepped up to Malid. “You okay?”

  He shook his head. “I do not matter—but my father is in good hands. He built this hospital, so they will be aware of that. Knowing that their major benefactor is now a patient is a motivating force.”

  Nigella managed a weak smile. Nassir headed over to the desk, Malid followed and the two began to answer questions put to them—when had the pain started, had he ever had anything like this before. Nigella interrupted to explain she had given Sheikh Adjalane an aspirin. The nurse nodded and kept asking questions—and then they were told to wait.

  Sheikh Adjalane had been taken to the lab for cat scans and testing. Nassir yanked off his head scarf and strode away, calling back, “I am going for some tea.”

  Malid turned to Nigella—and she saw in his eyes the fear that she would feel if it was her father in a hospital like this. Walking to him, she put her arms around him and held him tight. Malid stiffened a moment, then leaned into her, wrapping his arms around her.

  ***

  Malid paced the waiting room. Nigella had gone to wash her face and use the facilities. Nassir was off, asking the nurses yet again about their father. Malid knew there was nothing to do but wait—he hated that. He wanted to do something—but this was up to the doctors.

  He had thought about calling in specialists—but they were already here. All he could do now was ask for a private room and round-the-clock nursing once his father was out of heart surgery. They had been informed that the tests had shown a blockage—it was being corrected with stents that would open up the arteries again.

  Hearing a door open, Malid turned, expecting Nassir—or a nurse. Instead, Adilan took a step in and paused.

  He hadn’t seen his brother in months—and he hadn’t been to his brother’s wedding. He regretted that now, and glanced behind Adilan, looking for the American woman, Michelle, that Adilan had married.

  Adilan lifted one dark eyebrow. “Michelle is parking the car.”

  Malid shrugged. “Ever the independent woman.” Adilan stiffened, and Malid came forward. Guilt tugged at him, a small twist in his chest.

  Stepping into the room, Adilan asked, “How is he?”

  Malid lifted a hand. “I think it will take more than one small attack to kill our father.”

  “Were you arguing?”

  Malid looked at his brother. “No, I was trying to give him an apology—but I believe it really should go to you. Or your wife. I was wrong.”

  Adilan rubbed his jaw. He had filled out even more in the past few months—even though he was the youngest, he had always had more muscle. Now he looked—a man, not a boy. Married life agreed with him. Frowning, he stepped forward. At last he extended his hand. “Brother should argue, but we should also know when to stop. Father has been tired of late. Mother keeps asking him to have tests done, but you know Father.”

  “He didn’t want to hear that he should slow down. Did you know he called me to negotiate a deal with Opell Oil?”

  Adilan huffed out a laugh. “Ah, that is why I saw Gordon Michaels at the palace. I thought perhaps he’d been there to see father.”

  “He was.”

  Shaking his head, Adilan sat down in one of the chairs. The waiting room was a private one, but it still had the world’s most uncomfortable chairs, Malid thought. Hard backs and seats designed to keep you awake and on your feet. Adilan asked, “How long have you been here?”

  Malid shook his head. “I don’t really know. It seems forever.”

  Adilan nodded. “Mother will be here as soon as the storm passes.”

  “So you drove in it, too?” Malid asked.

  Before Adilan could answer, the door opened and an older man in blue hospital scrubs stepped in. His name badge read Dr. Azoula, and he shook hands with Malid and then with Adilan, and asked if their brother needed to be here.

  “You are caring for my father? How is he?” Adilan asked.

  Malid waved
for the doctor to talk. The man nodded and said, “It was good you got him to the hospital as fast as you did. A blockage such as the one he had can damage the heart—time is vital to restore circulation. The procedure went very well, but he will need rest for a complete recovery.”

  “Can we see him?” Adilan asked.

  “Soon as we have him settled. And don’t expect him to wake for a few hours.” The doctor left and Adilan glanced at Malid. “It seems I owe you a debt, brother.”

  Nassir stepped into the room, steaming tea in his hand. “A debt for what?” he asked.

  Turning, Adilan grinned. “It’s right that Malid is back home. And if Father has a problem with it, I will go with you to talk to him.”

  “You will?” Nassir shook his head. “We will. But I think…why don’t we let that conversation wait for a time.”

  “Is Michelle on her way here?” Nassir asked. Adilan nodded. Nassir glanced from Malid to Adilan. “And she’s going to be okay seeing him? She doesn’t have a knife on her, does she?”

  Adilan grinned. “If she does, Malid will have to look out for himself.”

  Shaking his head, Malid pulled open the door. “Go, you to. Make sure Father is comfortable. I’ll bring Michelle up when she arrives.”

  Nassir shook his head. “You always had more courage than sense.”

  Malid smiled. “No. I have a secret weapon.” Adilan frowned, Nassir grinned, and the two men strode out, heading for the elevators. They passed Nigella on the way, and Malid saw Nassir give her a wink.

  She came over to Malid’s side. “That’s got to be another Adjalane—your father must have made the three of you out of the same mold.”

  “I think my mother had something to do with it.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, and told her the doctor’s news.

  She let out a breath and smiled. “I’ll bet your mother’s going to love having to keep your daddy resting.”

  “No, that will be the job of the staff, and Hassan has been managing my father for decades. Hassan will find ways to ensure my father’s rest, without seeming to do anything. There will simply be a lack of phone calls, few visitors will stay to tire my father, and papers will not be on my father’s desk when he demands them.”

  Her eyes widened. “I need to get my daddy a Hassan. Can we go see Nimr? Should I wait here?”

  He took her hand and stepped from the room, and saw Michelle walking into the hospital. She looked much as he remembered—a very straight nose, wide-spaced blue eyes, and the olive complexion of a woman from his own country. Her almost black hair was worn straight, and she had on a light-colored business suit, with a short hem. Malid was quite certain Michelle would never adapt fully to the customs of his country. Disapproval for her dress rose in him, but he bit it back.

  Michelle saw him, glanced away and back. She missed one step and the color drained from her face.

  Frowning, Malid pulled Nigella with him and headed for Michelle—Nigella would have to help him make this right. But Nigella pulled from her hand away from his and stepped forward, one hand offered. “You must be Michelle. Adilan is upstairs. I’m Nigella Michaels. I have to say I saw your wedding photos in the newspapers when I was doing my homework for the deal I was putting together for Opell Oil and the Adjalanes, but the photos don’t do you justice.”

  Michelle blinked, and Malid had to hide a smile—he had never seen her at a loss for words like this. “Why…thank you.” She sounded uncertain and she turned to Malid, her eyes sparking with a challenge and her back stiff. “I’m surprised your back. Come to make trouble?”

  Malid smiled. “I’ve already apologized to Adilan, and I offer you my regrets as well. I—” He glanced at Nigella, saw she’d lifted her eyebrows as if she knew what he should say and was waiting. Ah, but this woman would tie him in knots. He grinned. He would not mind so long as he, too, was allowed to play with knots when they were alone. He turned back to Michelle. “I will understand if you are unable to forgive me.”

  She tipped her head to one side, her eyes narrowed, and then Michelle lifted a fist and punched his arm. It hurt—it actually hurt. Rubbing the spot, he stared at her. She grinned. “I’ve been wanting to do that for far too long. And Adilan’s been giving me boxing lessons. You can be the worst jerk…but Adilan…I think he’s missed you, you bastard.”

  Malid heard a choked laugh. He glanced at Nigella, saw her covering her mouth. He looked at Michelle and gave a small bow. “Do we call it even now?”

  Michelle shook her head. “Brother, I’m just getting started. But I suppose a hospital is a place for a truce.”

  With a wave, he allowed her to head into the elevator first—he didn’t want that woman at his back.

  Nimr had been settled into a private room, but the staff wanted only one visitor at a time. Malid found himself in a private waiting room, not far from his father. Nigella stood close to him, and he realized He couldn’t have done this without her. But how could he tell her that—they had known each other such a short time.

  His mother came out of Nimr’s room looking tired and drawn. Adilan swapped a look with his wife, and Michelle offered to take their mother to get some tea. That was a good idea. Nigella leaned close to Malid and said, “He’s your father. You can’t fool me, you know. You care about him but you just don’t know how to show it.”

  Malid slanted a look at her. “How do you know that?”

  “You want me to list the reasons? There’s the fact that you didn’t leave the region after he banished you.”

  “Al-Sarid is my home. I always planned on finding a way back.”

  “And you broke your own rule—you went out in a sandstorm in order to get your father the help he needed.”

  He shook his head. “Anyone would have done the same.”

  Nigella smiled. “Really? But then we come to your hand.”

  “What does my hand have to do with it?” he asked.

  She smiled and put a hand on his arm. “I’ve seen the tremors in your fingers—you were worried for him. Afraid he would die. I’ve been through this with Daddy—he had a stroke scare that had me climbing the walls.” She nodded to Nimr’s room. “Go on. I’ll wait here with your brothers.”

  He squeezed her hand and headed into his father’s room.

  Nimr lay on his bed, his eyes closed, wires hooked up to monitors and a tube to give him oxygen attached to his nose. Shifting on his feet, Malid wondered what he should do—what should he say. He had no idea, so he simply thought of Nigella and how she had stayed close to him, even holding his hand. He had never seen the man look so…so quiet.

  Malid sat down next to the bed on a hard chair and clasped his father’s hand between his own.

  Nimr’s eyes fluttered and opened slightly. He parted his lips and his voice came out raspy and weak. “Never go out in a sandstorm. Did I not teach you better?”

  Malid shook his head. “I was confident I could get us to the hospital. Hassan taught me to drive. You had me worried today—but…but it made me realized something very important. Family must come first—before business. Before anything.”

  Nimr gave a snort and then coughed. Malid stood and picked up the water on the table next to Nimr’s bed. He helped his father take two sips. Nimr held up a hand, and Malid put down the water and sat again.

  “You will be glad, Father, to know I have made things right between myself and Adilan—and Michelle as well.”

  Lifting one dark eyebrow, Nimr stared at him. “Have you?” He narrowed his eyes. “You have been different today—is this the work of that American girl?”

  “What if it is?”

  Nimr let out a sigh. “My sons seems doomed to fall in love with Americans.”

  Smiling, Malid shook his head. “Did you not fall in love with an American woman—before she left you and broke your heart, and you had to marry mother instead.”

  Nimr groaned. “My chest hurts. I think I will sleep.”

  �
�Oh, no—you do not get away from me so easily.”

  Nimr waved a hand. “See Hassan. I have already set up the documents you need to act in my place.” Malid stared at his father. A small smile curved Nimr’s mouth. “What—you think I did not know you would come around…eventually. You were right to intervene with Gordon Michaels, and you have my permission to make whatever deal you think is right. And, if you let that pretty American slip through your fingers, you are not as smart as I think you are. Now go away. Let Nassir come in—he is as peaceful as your mother. I will see Adilan after, and then I plan to sleep.”

  Malid stood. “Yes, Father.”

  Nimr chuckled. “Ah, if only you were such a dutiful son.”

  “That would mean I am not your son.” Malid squeezed his father’s hand and put it back down on the white sheets. He headed out, a weight seeming to lift from his shoulders.

  He told Nassir to go in next, and then he turned to Nigella. “Come. You look as tired as I feel.”

  “What a charming thing to say to a lovely woman,” Adilan said. He glanced at Nigella. “IS he always so charming to you?”

  She shook her head. “Only when he wants something.”

  Grabbing Nigella’s hand, Malid pulled her with him to the elevators. “Please, let us go. I hate the smell of hospitals and—”

  “And almost losing your father…it’s hard.”

  He looked at her. He had almost lost his father today, and suddenly all of their fighting seemed insignificant. Getting his own way would mean nothing if he lost the people who meant the most to him in the process.

  The elevator arrived. He stepped in and pulled Nigella close. “Will you come home with me?”

  “Why don’t we head to the nearest hotel—it’s faster and you’ll want to be close to your dad.”

  He laughed. “Beautiful as well as smart—I am a lucky man.”

  Smiling, she put her arms around his neck. “Oh, you’re about to get very lucky.”

  Chapter 15

  Malid flagged down a taxi and directed it to the nearest hotel. Too much excitement had left Nigella both tired and at the same time she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep—she also wanted her skin pressed against Malid’s. Tomorrow they could go back to hashing out business terms—tonight…tonight she just wanted to feel Malid’s heart beating against hers.