Carrying the Sheikh's Baby Page 2

  He waited for her to absorb the offer, and the threat—that if she didn’t agree to his proposition, any chance of getting official accreditation would be lost.

  It didn’t take long for the full import of his position to sink in—her expressive face flushing with something akin to alarm.

  ‘I could continue my work without the accreditation,’ she said, but her teeth pulled at her bottom lip. The nervous tug sent another annoying jolt to his crotch, but also revealed her statement for what it was—a heroic bluff.

  ‘You could. But your tenure here would be withdrawn,’ he said, his patience at an end. No matter how attractive or heroic she was, he did not have time to play with her any longer. ‘And I would personally ensure you were not allowed access to any of the materials you need to continue researching my country.’

  Her eyebrows shot up her forehead. The flush on her cheeks highlighted the sprinkle of freckles across her nose. ‘Are you... Are you threatening me, Mr Khan?’

  Placing his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers, he stepped closer. ‘On the contrary, I’m offering you a chance to validate your work. Narabia is a fascinating and beautiful place—which is about to come out of its chrysalis. And finally fulfil its potential.’

  That was the end game here: to turn the country into somewhere that could embrace its cultural heritage without being held back by it.

  ‘How can you write about a country you’ve never seen? A culture you’ve never experienced? And a people you’ve never met?’

  * * *

  The passion in Zane Khan’s eyes only made the cerulean blue more stormy and intense. And deeply unsettling.

  He’s calling you a coward.

  The implication stung, touching a nerve she had spent years cauterising. But really, how could she dispute his assessment?

  Ever since she’d arrived in Cambridge, arrived at Devereaux College, she’d immersed herself in learning because it made her feel safe and secure.

  But ever since her father’s death, she’d wanted to spread her wings, to stop being scared of the wanderlust she’d banked so carefully as a child.

  Don’t be so boring, darling. Daddy won’t know if you don’t tell him. What are you? A cat or a mouse?

  The image of her mother’s bright—too bright—smile and her milk-chocolate eyes, full of reckless passion, flickered at the edge of Cat’s consciousness like a guilty secret.

  Don’t go there. This has nothing to do with her. This is all about you.

  She forced herself to meet Zane Khan’s pure blue eyes again, dark with secrets her research so far had only hinted at. This man was dangerous to her peace of mind, but why should that have anything to do with her professional integrity? So what if she felt completely overwhelmed and she’d only been in his presence for five minutes? Surely that was just a by-product of all the things that had held her back for so long. Confidence had to be earned. And that meant facing your fears. And not being a coward.

  All you have to do is believe you can, Cat. Then you will.

  Her father’s supportive voice and the encouragement he’d given her when she’d been crippled with anxiety on her first day of primary school, of secondary school, of sixth-form college, of university and then graduate school, echoed through her head.

  A bubble of excitement burst in her blood. Yes, the thought of this trip was terrifying. But it was way past time she stopped living in her comfort zone. She was twenty-four years old. And she’d never even had a proper boyfriend—the flush rode up her neck—which probably explained why she’d practically passed out when she’d met Zane Khan.

  She’d pored over pictures and artefacts from Narabia, been captivated by the country’s stunningly diverse geography and its rich cultural heritage—but she’d only been able to scratch the surface of its secrets. She already knew she needed to experience the country and the culture first-hand to validate her work. The chance to experience what might well be a tumultuous time in the country’s history was also tantalising—professionally speaking.

  And the only time she would have to spend in Zane Khan’s company would be for her research.

  ‘Would I be able to have full access to the archives?’

  ‘Of course,’ he answered without hesitation.

  An anthropological book detailing the country’s rich cultural heritage, its monarchy and the challenges they were facing made sense. Zane Khan and his own past were surely at the centre of that.

  ‘I’d also like to interview you at some point,’ she said before she could chicken out.

  She saw the flicker of something brittle and defensive in his eyes and the muscle in his jaw tensed. ‘Why would that be necessary?’

  ‘Well, you’re the country’s ruler,’ she said, not sure why she was having to explain herself. ‘And also because you had a Westernised childhood—you would have a unique perspective that spans both cultures.’

  ‘I’m sure I can arrange to speak to you at some point,’ he said, but his tone was strangely tight. ‘So do we have a deal?’

  She let out a deep breath, feeling as if she were about to jump off a cliff—because in a lot of ways she was... But she’d been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time.

  You don’t want to be a mouse for ever.

  ‘Okay—you’ve got a deal,’ she said, the surge of excitement at her own daring almost overwhelming her panic.

  She reached out her hand, but then long strong fingers folded over hers—and she yearned to snatch it back. His grip was firm, impersonal, but the rush of sensation that raced up her arm was anything but.

  ‘How long will it take you to pack?’ he asked.

  ‘Umm... I should be able to fly over in a week or so,’ she said, grateful when he released her hand. She needed to rearrange her teaching schedule, pack up her flat on campus and give herself more time to make absolutely sure she was happy jumping off this cliff.

  ‘Not good enough,’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, disturbed by the no-nonsense tone, and the sensation still streaking up her arm.

  ‘I’ll have the contract drawn up and delivered to you within the hour. Is five hundred thousand pounds sufficient for your input on the project?’

  Half a million pounds!

  ‘I... That’s very generous.’

  ‘Excellent, then we will leave for Narabia tonight.’

  We...? Tonight...? What...?

  ‘I...’

  He held up his hand, and the feeble protest got stuck in her throat.

  ‘No buts. We made a deal.’ He took a phone out of his trouser pocket, and walked past her. The two bodyguards and Walmsley, who must have been lurking outside the door, all snapped to attention as he opened it.

  So Zane Khan didn’t just have that disturbing effect on her.

  ‘Dr Smith will be leaving on my private jet tonight,’ he announced.

  Walmsley’s mouth dropped open comically, but Cat didn’t feel much like laughing.

  Zane glanced over his shoulder. ‘A car will arrive in four hours to take you to the airport,’ he said.

  ‘But that’s not enough time,’ she managed, past the constriction in her throat. What exactly had she just agreed to? Because she was starting to feel like a mouse again. A very timid, overwhelmed mouse, in the presence of a large, extremely predatory lion.

  ‘Anything you need will be provided for you,’ he said, cutting off any more protests by lifting the phone back to his ear and striding away down the corridor, with the two bodyguards flanking him.

  Cat watched his tall figure disappear round the corner, her breath locked in her lungs and her stomach free-falling off the cliff without the rest of her.

  Problem was, she hadn’t had the chance to jump off this particular cliff—because she’d just been pushed.

  CHAPTER TWO

 
CAT ARRIVED AT the private airfield outside Cambridge four and a half hours later, still dazed from her meeting with the Narabian ruler.

  Is this actually happening?

  The arc lights from the airfield hangar illuminated a sleek private jet painted in the gold and green colours of the desert kingdom’s flag.

  The driver, who had arrived on the dot of eight o’clock at her flat on campus, hauled her borrowed rucksack out of the back of the limousine and escorted Cat across the airfield to the plane’s steps.

  A man appeared at the aircraft’s door, dressed in a robe and a traditional Narabian headdress. He lifted the battered bag off the chauffeur’s shoulder and ushered her onto the plane, introducing himself as Abdallah, one of the Sheikh’s personal servants.

  She was led through the cabin—the plush leather seats and polished teak tables offset by thick wool carpeting—into a private bedroom at the end of the plane.

  ‘You will be served dinner in here once we are airborne,’ the man said in perfect English, putting her bag onto one of the cabin’s armchairs. She stifled the sting of embarrassment at the sight of the hastily packed rucksack marring the butter-soft leather upholstery. ‘Suitable clothing has been made available for your stay in Narabia,’ Abdallah announced, his gaze flicking discreetly over her attire—and making her acutely aware of the battered boots, jeans and second-hand sweater she hadn’t had a chance to change out of. There was no censure in his tone, but still she felt impossibly awkward and ill-prepared. Especially when the servant slid open the door of a built-in wardrobe to reveal an array of dark flowing robes.

  ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, has asked that you dress appropriately when leaving the plane—and limit your questions to myself or the other palace staff at all times.’

  Cat nodded mutely, her nervousness accompanied by a tingle of irritation. It seemed His Divine Majesty was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. But how was she going to be able to do the research she needed to do on Narabia’s customs and culture if she was not able to be a free agent?

  ‘Is Mr Khan on the plane?’ she asked.

  The man’s eyebrows rose a fraction before he spoke. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, the Sheikh of Narabia is flying the plane, Dr Smith. He has asked me to assist you in any way you desire.’

  The tightness around her ribcage eased at the thought she wouldn’t have to see Zane Khan again until they landed. But then she felt disappointed in herself.

  This was going to be an adventure. An adventure she would one day be able to tell her grandchildren. Events had moved much faster than she was comfortable with. But was that really a bad thing?

  Impulsiveness was a trait she’d quashed throughout her childhood and teenage years—and she’d persuaded herself it was a good thing she hadn’t had the chance to quash it this time.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t make what lay ahead of her any less intimidating or overwhelming. And Zane Khan’s presence did make it that much harder to process, because she didn’t seem to be able to breathe properly when he was near her—let alone process her thoughts. But his decision to start dictating her every move before they’d even left the UK did not bode well for her work.

  She wanted to do a thorough job. Which meant she would have to get up the guts to confront His Divine Majesty if she had to.

  ‘We will be landing in Narabia at eight tomorrow morning,’ Abdallah informed her, his implacable gaze revealing nothing. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, will speak with you then, before we proceed to the Sheikh’s palace.’

  Cat’s pulse hammered her collarbone. The Sheikh’s palace had been built over five hundred years ago on a natural spring, and its architectural splendour was rumoured to rival that of the Taj Mahal, but no photographs existed of it. Only a few pencil drawings done by a British explorer in the nineteen twenties.

  She would be the first outsider to see it in generations. She took a deep breath and let it out again to contain the leap of excitement.

  Strike one for impulsiveness.

  ‘Thank you, I look forward to seeing it,’ she said, barely able to stifle her grin as Abdallah excused himself and left.

  Her breathing clogged again though, as the plane’s engines rumbled to life. She strapped herself into the leather passenger seat and imagined Zane Khan’s long fingers handling the controls. Her stomach lifted into her throat as the plane raced down the tarmac and rose into the night sky above Cambridge.

  There was a three-hour time difference between the UK and Narabia, which gave her approximately nine hours to figure out how she was going to handle her interaction with His Divine Majesty the next time she saw him.

  She counted her breaths in and out, as the lights of Cambridge disappeared under the cover of clouds.

  Not hyperventilating would be an excellent start.

  * * *

  After a three-course dinner—consisting of Narabian delicacies in a tantalising combination of African and Middle Eastern flavours—Cat managed a fitful four hours’ sleep on the luxurious bed. The last time she woke, to the efficient purr of the plane’s engines, the desert landscape was visible through the cabin windows, only a few thousand feet below.

  With only an hour till they landed she rushed her shower—while struggling to get her head around the idea of having a shower on a plane—then dug out her meagre supply of make-up. She rarely wore it, but in this instance the smudge of eyeshadow and the slick of lip gloss should help boost her confidence and her courage.

  Donning one of the robes proved a great deal more challenging. The flowing floor-length garment was made of gossamer-thin black silk with stunning gold embroidery at the cuffs and hem. The fitted bodice hooked up the front right to the neck, and included a matching scarf. But what exactly was she supposed to wear underneath it? Was the robe supposed to be worn as a dress or an overgarment?

  Even in spring, the desert kingdom would be extremely hot. But the only other items in the closet were other similar robes and an array of delicate underwear. Heat incinerated her cheeks as she ran her fingertips over the transparent lace.

  Just the thought of wearing the skimpy undergarments with only a thin layer of silk to cover them in front of Zane Khan had her hyperventilating again. She was nervous enough already. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see she was virtually naked beneath her robe, but she would know.

  In the end, she settled for putting on her sturdy cotton bra and panties and one of her maxi summer dresses under the robe. Made for summer in Cambridge, not spring in Narabia, the dress was a great deal heavier than the lightweight material of the robe, and it made the robe itself a bit snug, but the added layer helped to slow her rampaging pulse. After wrestling with the hooks to fasten the front of the robe over her breasts, she tied back her damp hair with an elastic band, draped the exquisitely embroidered scarf over her head and tied the ends at the back of her neck.

  Strapping herself in for the landing, she devoured the dramatic sight of the rocky terrain as the plane skimmed over a mountainous region to touch down at a deserted airfield. But as the plane taxied and then came to a stop in front of a large, sleekly modern glass-and-steel hangar, her stomach didn’t quite land with it.

  When Abdallah arrived ten minutes later, she’d repaired her make-up twice—and debated about fifty times whether to simply step out of the cabin. Perhaps they had forgotten she was on the plane?

  ‘His Divine Majesty awaits your presence,’ Abdallah announced, picking up her rucksack.

  Play it cool, and remember to keep breathing.

  She smoothed sweaty palms down the robe, feeling the bulk of fabric where her dress tightened the fit.

  As she stepped out of the cabin her gaze locked on a group of men dressed in robes standing beside the plane’s open door. Or one man in particular, who stood head and shoulders above the rest.

  As if he had sensed
her presence, Zane Khan turned to face her, and her breath locked in her lungs again.

  Breathe, Cat, breathe.

  She struggled to regulate her lung function before she passed out. She’d never seen anything so magnificent—or so masculine—as the Sheikh of Narabia in his traditional ceremonial garb.

  Her gaze stole up his frame, taking in every aspect of the striking outfit.

  Knee-high leather boots shone in the blazing desert sunlight stealing in through the cabin’s door, and moulded to impressive calf muscles. Black cotton trousers hung loose around his long legs to give him ease of movement but did nothing to disguise the powerful muscles in his thighs. A silk sash that matched the extraordinary blue of his eyes provided a startling splash of colour around his lean waist. The long flowing cloak he wore trailed to his knees but any semblance of modesty was belied by the black tunic that hung open at his neck in a deep V, revealing tantalising wisps of chest hair. But it was his dramatic headdress—draped to shade his head and shoulders and the back of his neck and held on with a jewelled gold band around his forehead—and the sabres glinting on his hips and attached by across-the-shoulder leather straps that had Cat’s breath gushing out.

  No wonder they call him the Divine Majesty.

  He didn’t only look magnificent, he looked indomitable—a man entirely at one with his heritage and his own masculinity. Those pure blue eyes seemed to bore into her through the silk of her own robe—right through the fabric of her dress and the sturdy cotton of her underwear to her palpitating heart. She thanked God she had decided to wear the extra layers, because even with them on she felt naked—every inch of her skin tingling with awareness.

  ‘Dr Smith,’ he said in that rough, commanding baritone. He held out a hand and hooked a finger, directing her to come to him. ‘I see you found the clothing,’ he said.