Reunited with His Runaway Doc

by Lucy Clark

  ‘Yes. I do.’ She felt rather than heard his sigh of relief.

  ‘And I love you.’ The words were spoken without hesitation.

  ‘And we’re going to work together at the hospital in the ED and in the labs…’ She kissed him again.

  ‘And on building a life together.’

  Maybelle paused in her elation for a second as a thread of fear passed through her at his words. ‘A life together… Arthur, what if…what if bad people do come after me again?’ She shook her head. ‘I had a terrible dream where they came after you and our children and…and…’

  ‘I’ll learn all the martial arts and protective measures and whatever else I need to, to ensure my family’s safety,’ he told her firmly.

  ‘Family? Are you sure?’

  He laughed and kissed her. ‘Oh, Maybelle. You really are so perfect for me. I swore I’d never enter into marriage again but you were right. My heart wants to have a family, to have a house in the suburbs and to be with the woman I love for the rest of my life…and that woman is you.’

  ‘Are you asking me to marry you?’ She moved back and smiled at him.

  ‘I believe I am. What do you say?’

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him before easing from his arms. ‘I say, wait here a second.’

  ‘That’s not a yes!’ he called after her as she rushed into her bedroom then quickly returned. She held out her hand and he opened his to accept whatever it was she was giving him. So trusting. She liked that.

  Into his hand, she placed his watch. ‘I’ve had this ever since that night. I’ve kept it safe. Kept it close. Kept it as a bond, linking us together.’

  He shook his head with incredulity. ‘You kept my watch.’ He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled something out. He followed suit and held his hand out, waiting until she opened hers so he could place something on it.

  ‘My pink pen? You kept my pink pen?’

  ‘I think the ink’s dried up, though.’

  ‘You kept my pen.’

  ‘You kept my watch.’

  ‘We’ve stayed connected all these years.’

  ‘It was meant to be.’ He drew her close once more.

  ‘We belong together.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Marry me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then she pressed her lips to his, hoping to convey her heartfelt love to the man who had always been her knight in shining armour…her King Arthur.

  EPILOGUE

  FOUR WEEKS LATER Clara Lewis arrived back in Australia and was met at the airport by her big brother and his fiancée, Maybelle Freebourne.

  ‘May! It’s really you?’

  Maybelle laughed as Clara completely ignored her brother and embraced May as though the past twenty years hadn’t existed at all. Maybelle had had a similar reaction from Arthur’s parents, the Lewises welcoming her into their family in the same way they had all those years ago.

  Although Clara and Maybelle had spoken on the phone several times during the past four weeks, seeing each other face to face was very emotional.

  She was glad Clara had returned to Australia when she had, because in another three weeks Clara would be her maid of honour, and Mr and Mrs Lewis would both walk her down the aisle so Maybelle could marry Arthur and officially become a member of the Lewis family.

  ‘It’s what I’d always hoped,’ Clara whispered in Maybelle’s ear as they continued their hug. ‘You’re really going to be my sister.’

  ‘OK, you two. Break it up,’ Arthur remarked as he put an arm around each of them, his beloved sister on one side and his incredible future wife on the other.

  ‘You’re just jealous,’ Clara sniffed.

  ‘Completely. I’ve been used to having Maybelle all to myself. Now I have to share her and I don’t like it one little bit.’

  ‘Possessive, much?’ Clara teased her brother as they headed off to the luggage carousel.

  ‘Happy?’ Arthur asked Maybelle later that evening as they sat on the lounge, Juzzy snuggled up between them.

  ‘Beyond my wildest dreams. I’ve gone from being all alone to having parents, a sister and a dog.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. And an incredible man who loves me…unconditionally.’

  *

  If you enjoyed this story, check out these other great reads from Lucy Clark:

  A FAMILY FOR CHLOE

  ENGLISH ROSE IN THE OUTBACK

  STILL MARRIED TO HER EX!

  A CHILD TO BIND THEM

  All available now!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from HEALING THE SHEIKH’S HEART by Annie O’Neil.

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  Healing the Sheikh’s Heart

  by Annie O’Neil

  CHAPTER ONE

  “NEXT!”

  Sure, it was clichéd, but so was the interview Idris had been forced to bring to an abrupt halt. How superficial did these people think he was?

  His name on a hospital wing for having his daughter’s surgery at the Chelsea Children’s Clinic? Ridiculous. The money wasted on ribbon-cutting ceremonies and plaques should be spent on the children. In hospital. Wasn’t that the point of a large donation? Not lavish displays of wealth and largesse. He had one concern and one concern only—bringing the gift of sound into his little girl’s silent world. He turned at the gentle ahem prompt from Kaisha, all too aware this was exactly the sort of thing Amira couldn’t experience.

  “Are you ready for the next one?”

  “Are there many more? I don’t know how much more of this misplaced adulation I can take.”

  His assistant appeared by his side, scanning the printouts on her leather-clad clipboard. The one with the royal crest that always ramped up the anxious-to-please smiles of his interviewees. Surgeons at the top of their games! He sucked in an embarrassed breath on their behalf, using the three-two-one exhale to try to calm himself.

  “No, Your Excellency. We’ve only got three more.”

  “Kaisha, please.” He only just stopped himself from snapping. “It’s Idris when we’re alone. There’s only so much sycophancy a man can take in a day. You, of all people, know how important it is we find the right doctor for Amira.”

  “Yes, Your… Idris.” Kaisha winced, did a variation of a curtsy, then threw her arms up in the air with the futility of getting it right and left the room. They both knew there was no need for a curtsy. They both knew Idris’s glowering mood was virtually impossible to lift. He’d worn his “thunder face,” as Amira liked to call it, near enough every day for the past seven years.

  Despite his headache, an overdose of London’s medical glitterati and a growing
need to get out and stride off his frustration in one of London’s sprawling royal parks, Idris smiled. Kaisha was loyal, intelligent and the last person he should be venting his frustration on. He’d hired her because she specialized in Da’har’s rich history. Not for her skills as a PA. Perhaps he should hire her a PA to take up the slack.

  He cupped his chin, stretching his neck first one way, then the next, willing the tension of the day to leave him…if not the penthouse suite altogether.

  He crossed the impressive expanse of the suite’s main sitting room. The “trophy suite” no less. Even he had winced at the pompous moniker but the location and views were incomparable. Nothing was off the shelf at Wyckham Place. Handcrafted tables, bespoke art pieces hung to match the modern, but undeniably select, furnishings and decor. He lived a life of privilege and preferred this type of understated elegance to flashy shows of gold-plated wealth. Apart from which, Amira liked the view of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament the penthouse suite afforded. Anything to bring a smile to his little girl’s face. She was so serious all the time. Little wonder, he supposed, without a mother’s tender care and a father more prone to gravitas than gaiety.

  His eyes hit a mirror as they left the view—the image confirming his thoughts. Hard angles, glinting eyes and the glower of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. There was a time when all he would’ve seen in return was a broad smile. When life was little short of perfect.

  His gaze snagged on his grimace. Losing his wife had all but ripped his easily won grin straight from his face.

  He looked away. Self-reflection had been another casualty. All that remained was his daughter’s happiness and the well-being of Da’har. If a nation’s character could run in a man’s genes he knew he embodied all that the small Gulf nation stood for. Pride. Strength. Resilience.

  His dark eyes hit the solid door of the suite, beyond which were two of his most trusted employees. Beyond them, at the lift, two more. And in the foyer of the hotel more waited, innocuously, in plain clothes. They were meant to provide a sense of security. Today it felt stifling.

  A sudden urge overtook him to tug on a hat and walk out into the streets of London, bodyguards left behind none the wiser, and become…no one in particular. But finding the right surgeon for his daughter was paramount. He’d tolerate near enough anything for her. Even torture by fawning hospital officials. He was mortal, after all. A true god would have foreseen the complications his wife had endured during the birth of their beautiful daughter. A truer one would have saved her.

  “How long has Amira been at the zoo?” Idris called over his shoulder.

  Kaisha appeared by his side again. “Only an hour or so, Your—Idris. As you requested, they cleared the zoo of other patrons so Amira could have a private tour.”

  He wondered, fleetingly, how Kaisha did that. Just…appeared. Maybe she’d been in the room the entire time and he simply hadn’t noticed. One of his recently “acquired” traits.

  Not so recent, he reminded himself. The seven longest years of his life. The only light in that time? His beautiful daughter.

  “Excellent. Amira always takes ages with the giraffes and penguins. And remember, I don’t want her anywhere near the hotel until we find the right person. If I have to pay to keep the zoo open longer, that’s not a problem.”

  Even Idris didn’t miss the pained expression Kaisha tried to hide from him as she lifted her clipboard to hide her features.

  “What is it, Kaisha?”

  “It’s just…”

  “Out with it!” Patience might be a virtue but it was most likely because it was in short supply. Particularly in his hotel suite.

  “You’ve seen most of the specialists already and haven’t bothered to hear any of them out.”

  “They all seemed more interested in attaching the Al Khalil name to their hospitals—or the Al Khalil money, rather—than in my daughter. She’s the entire point of this exercise. Cutting-edge medicine. The best money can buy. Not getting my name spread across London! If Amira hadn’t wanted to see that musical I would’ve flown everyone to Da’har and not wasted my time.”

  Kaisha, to her credit, nodded somberly. She had heard it all before. In between each of the interviews today, in fact. And the day before. Any patience in the room was Kaisha’s alone. Idris was more than aware he had a tether and was swiftly approaching the very end of it.

  “Right! It’s the next person on the list or we’re off to Boston Pediatrics or New York ENT. Enough of this nonsense. All right?”

  “Yes, Your Ex—Idris.” Kaisha gave a quick smile, proud to have remembered the less formal address in the nick of time. “Shall I fetch the next candidate?”

  “We might as well get it over with,” Idris grumbled, settling back into the only chair that comfortably accommodated his long limbs. “Who is it, please?”

  “Uh—yes, sorry—it’s Robyn Kelly. Dr. Robyn Kelly. Salaam Alaikum.”

  Idris looked up sharply. The voice answering him was most definitely not Kaisha’s.

  Alssamawat aljamila!

  The pair of eyes unabashedly meeting his own were the most extraordinary color.

  Amber.

  Lit from within just as a valued piece of the fossilized resin would be if it were held up to the sun. Mesmerizing.

  The sharp realization that he was staring, responding to this woman in a way he had only done once before, made him bite out angrily, though she bore no blame for his transgression.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Walked,” she answered plainly, her wayward blond curls falling forward as she looked down. “With these.” She pointed at her feet, clad in the sort of trainers he would’ve expected to see on a teenager. His eyes shot back to hers when he heard her giggling as if he had just asked the silliest question in the world.

  “Oh!” She popped a finger up as a sign he should take note. “Your…I think they’re your bodyguards…kindly let me in to ‘powder my nose’ a few minutes early. Hope that was all right. And it’s Robyn with a y not an i—i.e., not like the little birdie up in the trees but pretty close! Blame my parents,” she finished with a playful shrug.

  He narrowed his eyes, assessing the new arrival as coolly as he could considering she looked about as dangerous as a baby lamb. Even so, no one got past his bodyguards. Ever. And yet this amber-eyed sylph had done just that. What if she’d found Amira and stolen her away? His heart seized at the thought.

  Pragmatics forced him to blink away the foolish notion with a stern reminder that this…“Robyn”…was very human and that his daughter was safe and well.

  His gaze returned to Robyn. A couple of inches above average height. About his age—midthirties. Slender. At least what he could see of her, as most of her body was hidden beneath an oversize trench coat that would’ve been stylish if she’d bought the correct size or used the belt as intended rather than as a long rope to swing round and round like an anxious cowgirl as she awaited his response. A wild spray of golden curls. Untamed. A makeup-free face. Evidence the “nose-powdering” was a euphemism. Her cheeks were pink…with the cold, perhaps? By Da’harian standards, the day was wintry. A three-year stint at an English university had taught him the on-again, off-again late-summer rainstorms were normal. In keeping with the storm-tossed treetops quaking along the riverbanks below, Robyn Kelly was looking similarly windswept and ever so slightly unkempt.

  Perhaps more faerie or wayward pixie than sylph, then.

  The mythical creatures, he suspected, didn’t giggle. Nor did they tug their fingers through their hair when it was too late to make a good first impression.

  Even so—he shifted in his seat—it was easy enough to picture Robyn in gossamer with a set of diaphanous wings taking flight over the palace gardens of Da’har.

  Mercifully, he caught a glimpse of Kaisha appearing, and gave his throat a quick clear as if it would shunt away the images Robyn’s presence elicited.

  Kaisha shot an apologetic l
ook at Idris. She didn’t seem to know how Robyn had entered the suite any more than he did. “Dr. Kelly, could we offer you some coffee or—”

  “Bless you, love! I’d kill for a good old-fashioned cup of builder’s.” Robyn’s face lit up with a bright smile at Kaisha’s instantly furrowed brow. “Apologies!” She laughed. “I forget English is your…what is it—third or fourth language?”

  “Fourth.” Kaisha smiled shyly.

  “Fourth! I should be so lucky.” Robyn’s amber eyes flicked to Idris as if to say, Can you believe this girl?

  “And such different languages, as well. If I remember from our emails, you have the Da’har dialect, Arabic, French and English?”

  Kaisha nodded.

  “Impressive. The only other language I speak is ‘menu.’ Builder’s tea,” Robyn explained, hardly pausing for breath. “It means brewed strong and with a healthy dollop of milk.”

  “Not cream?”

  “No, love.” Robyn shook her head with a gentle smile. “I’m not so posh as all that. And if you have a couple of biccies tucked away in there somewhere so much the better.” She turned on the heel of what the cool kids would call her “trendy kicks” to face Idris. “I’m sorry. This is all a bit whirlwindy of me, isn’t it? Shall I begin again? A bit more officially?” She stuck out her hand without waiting for an answer. “Dr. Kelly from Paddington Children’s Hospital and you are…?”

  “Sheikh Idris Al Khalil,” he answered, rising to his full height and accepting her proffered hand, bemused to have to introduce himself at all.

  “Great!” Robyn gave his hand a quick, sharp shake and just as quickly extracted her hand with a little wriggle as if he’d squeezed it too hard and not the other way around. “Amira’s father.” Her eyes darted around the room as she spoke. “Excellent. All right if I just throw my mac here on the sofa or would you rather I grab a hanger from somewhere so you could hang it up on…?” Her eyes continued to scan the room for an appropriate place to hang her soaked raincoat while he found himself completely and utterly at a loss for words.

  No one had asked him to lift so much as a finger for them since…ever. Not that he minded lending a hand to a person in need, but…her lack of interest in his position in the Middle East, let alone the world, was refreshing. If not slightly disarming.