well-worn leather satchel up from the ground where she’d dropped it when she came in and began digging around for a moment before triumphantly revealing a half-used supersize packet of wipes. “We just had congratulations cupcakes at the hospital for one of the surgeons who’s newly engaged and I shared one with a patient while we were reading and—” she threw up her hands in a What can you do? gesture “—frosting!”
She took a dab at the streak of pink icing with a finger and he watched, mesmerized, as the tip of her tongue popped out, swirled around her finger, then made another little swipe along her full lower lip. “Buttercream. I just love that stuff! Doesn’t stop the children from getting it absolutely everywhere, though, does it?”
She began scrubbing at her top with the wipe, chattering away as she did. “Bless them. Being in hospital is bad enough, but having to worry about manners?” She shrugged an indecipherable response into the room, clearly not expecting him to join in on the one-sided conversation. “Then again, if the hospital weren’t on the brink of closing I probably wouldn’t be here making a class-A idiot out of myself. I’d be in surgery where I belong.”
Her eyes flicked up and met his.
“Uh-oh.” Her upper teeth took hold of her full lower lip as her face creased into an apologetic expression. “Out-loud voice?” Again, she didn’t wait for an answer, shook her head and returned to her task. “That’s what they get for sending the head of surgery and not PR!”
Idris watched near openmouthed, trying to divine if she was mad or if he was for letting her ramble on, all the while dabbing her blouse a bit too close to the gentle swell of her...
He forced his gaze away, feeling his shoulders cinch and release as Robyn’s monologue continued unabated. She hadn’t noticed. Just as well. He was in the market for a surgeon, not a lover.
“We, meaning everyone at the Castle—aka Paddington’s—obviously imagine Amira is a gorgeous little girl, and I, for one, can’t wait to meet her. So!” Robyn dropped the used wipe into her satchel and clapped her hands onto her knees. “Where is she?”
“I’m sorry?” Idris crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, all the while locking eyes with her. He was used to conducting interviews. Not the other way around. Who was this woman? Minihurricane or a much-needed breath of fresh air?
* * *
“Amira?” Robyn prompted, panicking for a second that she’d walked into the wrong Sheikh’s suite in the wrong fancy hotel. All the fripperies and hoo-ha of these places made her nervous. Or was it just the Sheikh? Idris.
He had breathtaking presence. The photo the hospital had supplied with his bio had been flattering—pitch-black eyes, high cheekbones, dark chestnut hair—a tick in all of the right boxes, so that was little wonder. But in real life?
A knee-wobbler.
She only hoped it didn’t show. Much.
She tried a discreet sidelong look in his direction but the full power of his dark-eyed gaze threatened a growing impatience.
He had said he was Idris Al Khalil and not the long-lost son of Omar Sharif, right?
“Amira,” she repeated, unsuccessfully reining her voice back to its normal low octave. “Where did you say your daughter was?”
“Out,” came the curt reply.
Huh. Not a flicker of emotion.
Still waters running deep or just a protective papa bear?
Not the way she usually liked to do things, but then she wasn’t in the habit of “pitching” herself to be the surgeon of choice, either. One of the few things she solidly knew about herself was that when it came to Ear, Nose and Throat surgeries, she was one of the best. If she thought there was someone else better for the job she wouldn’t have even showed up. But this was her gig. She’d known it from the moment she saw Amira’s case history.
She tipped her chin upward, eyes narrowing as she watched Idris observe her in return. His black eyes met hers with a near tactile force. Unnerving.
She looked away. Maybe this was some powerful sheikh-type rite of passage she had to go through. She crinkled her nose for a moment before chancing another glance at him.
Yup. Still watching her. Expectantly. Still super-gorgeous.
She pursed her lips. He’d better not be waiting for a song and dance.
She glanced at her watch.
That was about half a second used up, then.
Looked up at the ceiling—eyes catching with his on the way up.
Still staring at her.
She remembered a trick one of her colleagues taught her. Pretend he was in his underwear. She gave him her best measured look all the while feeling her blush deepen as she pictured all six-foot-something of Idris naked, which was really...much nicer than she probably should be finding the experience.
This whole staring/not staring thing was a bit unnerving. Part of her wished she’d brought a sock puppet.
Robyn! Do not resort to sock puppets!
She clapped her hands onto her knees again.
“So...what do I call you?”
His dark eyebrows drew together into a consternated furrow.
“Idris.”
“Oh!” She blinked her surprise. “Phew! I was a bit nervous there that I was meant to bow or ‘your highness’ you or something. Idris. Great. Beautiful name. I believe that’s after one of the Islamic prophets in the Qur’an. Yes? Did you know it’s also a Welsh name meaning ‘ardent lord’ or ‘prince’? Fitting, right?”
“I am neither a prophet nor a prince,” he answered tightly.
Okay. So he was a king, or a sheikh, or a sheikh king. Whatever. It made no difference to her, not with how full her plate was with the hospital on the brink of closing and an endless list of patients Paddington’s could help if only its doors were kept open. Besides—she chewed on her lower lip as she held another untimed staring contest with him—she was just making chitchat until his daughter showed up.
Blink.
He won. Whether or not he knew it. Who could stare at all that...chiseled perfection without blinking? He had it all. The proud cheekbones. The aquiline nose. Deliciously perfect caramel-colored skin. The ever so slightly cleft chin just visible beneath more than a hint of a five o’clock shadow. She didn’t know why, but she was almost surprised at his short, immaculately groomed dark hair. He would’ve suited a mane of the stuff—blowing in the wind as he rode a horse bareback across the dunes. Or whatever it was sheikhs did in their spare time. The color of his hair was run-your-fingers-through-it gorgeous. Espresso-rich. Just...rich. Everything about him screamed privileged. Polar opposites, then.
Of course she’d blinked first.
“Well, you know there’s also a mountain in Wales—Idris’s Chair. And just look at you there—sitting in a chair.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly. Most people
