Falling For Her Reluctant Sheikh

But the sudden, intense aversion to the thought of accepting her help disgusted him even more.

Help was the whole reason for her to be there. He should just tell her everything right now. That would replace the sweet, nervous innocent with something uglier, a reflection of the blackness devouring him from the inside out. She’d give him her pity, at best, and she sure as hell wouldn’t sit there, barely clothed, trusting him to fake his way through the actions of a good man.

“I doubt the equipment is going to be very helpful. My problem is I don’t sleep. I’ve got insomnia. And when I fail to fall asleep, I don’t tend to stay in bed for hours, trying. Not a lot to monitor when that happens. Which happens a great deal of the time.” He’d opened his mouth, said words, but not the right ones. His throat refused to let those words pass.

“Well, you have to sleep sometime. I mean, you’re not a drooling idiot right now, and after you miss enough sleep—well, I’m sure you’ve noticed the effects. But there are also other effects that are actually quite dangerous. We all have a maximum amount of time we can go without sleep and then our brains start taking micro-sleeps when we’re trying to work. Or trying to drive. Insomnia sounds like a pain in the butt, but really it can be very dangerous.”

Dangerous, like his reaction to her. “So your solution to it is?”

Solution? The only one he needed right this second was the one that would keep him from ogling his oldest friend’s little sister.

“There are a lot of different treatments, and sometimes that means a sleeping pill if you’re at a state where it’s gotten very dangerous for you to stay awake.”

He’d never consciously liked the idea of innocence before. Before he’d come into the room and been tantalized by the nearly nothing she’d had on—coupled with his weakened state—this was certainly a natural reaction. Not just another flaw in his character.

“Lose this battle so you can live to keep fighting the war. On another day. Night.”

He just had to remember who she was and what she was to him. It shouldn’t matter to him what she thought of him, so he should be able to tell Adalyn the truth and actually get the help he’d dragged her around the globe for, not send her to treat imaginary illness.

“You know,” she continued, “if the battle is a desire to sleep the natural way. Sleep aids aren’t the greatest thing in the world, but sometimes they are necessary as you’re trying to retrain yourself and your bed habits.” She yawned, reminding him that she was tired, too. Probably jet-lagged.

And she’d stopped smoothing her robe closed. Definitely tired.

He remained standing as stiff as his suit by the door. “I have sleep aids but, as you said, I try not to use them. I may have dragged you across the world for nothing, Dr. Quinn.” Doctor. Not Adalyn. Speak to her professionally, and perhaps his thoughts would follow that lead.

“Am I getting that you don’t want me to be here? Did Jamison twist your arm into agreeing to this?” Her gaze sharpened and she stood, her head tilting and those pretty green eyes fixing on him with an intensity that faked alertness. And a little bit of hope. “Because if you really don’t want me here, we could take a day or two and just diagnose and prescribe a treatment and I could go home, rather than sticking around to see you through whatever you need to get right. Jamison could be satisfied with that.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you here,” he said before it became clear she was offering him an out. She didn’t want to be there any more than he wanted her there. They could put on a brief show of his treatment, enough to satisfy Jay, and then she would happily go home. “I just don’t sleep well at the palace. Or at all. I sleep …” He rubbed his brow, pausing as he paced to a chair and sat. Her fatigue amplified his own. “I sleep better when I’m not in the palace.”

“Do you keep an apartment somewhere else? Or are you referring to before you came to this kingdom to do the regent thing?”

“I don’t keep an apartment. It’s a tent.” Why was he telling her this? Letting her witness his trouble would lead to questions, the bane of his existence. The prospect of her finding out seemed worse than the whole world finding out, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care how sexist that seemed to him—not wanting to be treated or rescued by the sweet creature his inner caveman salivated over. He didn’t want her to know any of it, his weakness, his shame.

“I take short medical missions out into the desert to treat those who live in camps far from medical assistance. I’m a doctor, it is just who I am, and I want to hold on to that part of myself while I’m doing my duty for my country and my family, and not let my skills grow rusty for lack of use, as they would if I stopped practicing and became a full-time bureaucrat.”

“And when you’re on your medical missions in a tent, you sleep better?” she said, fixating on that part.

What she should be fixating on was the fact that he didn’t sleep here in the palace. If she were to continue to treat him, she’d have to go, too. “I can’t explain it, but I should’ve thought about that before you came all this way. I know you have no desire to come out into the desert with me, and the equipment would be useless there anyway. Apologies, Adalyn.”

She sat back down on the edge of the bed, thoughtful frown firmly in place. “How long are the missions?”

“Many days.” Not that many, but more than two. He would disappear for weeks on end if he could get away with it.

“And people don’t know you’re doing this?”

She should sound less interested, not more.

“I keep a small staff here, and I’m always available via satellite phone. Since this is not my home country—it’s my mother’s kingdom—the people here, especially those out in the desert camps, don’t know what I look like. I go by a different name. We have a fake logo sprayed onto the trucks. It’s …”

“Tricky.” She grinned as she said the word and then yawned wider than she had before. “Well, I have a theory about the sleeping in the tent thing. But if you only take a short trip when you go, I’m assuming it’s fairly frequent short trips?” She stopped, shifted on the bed some more and tried again. “I can go … on one trip. And that would be a few days of monitoring when you’re actually sleeping. And then we can tell Jamison that we worked on a treatment plan for you to implement.”

“The sun is brutal, Adalyn. You will burn to a crisp. And the heat, if you’re unused to it …”

“Where I live it gets very hot. And humid. Super-humid. So humid that mold is a massive problem. I can handle heat. And wear sunblock. We’ll be going in a vehicle anyway, right? Something with a roof?” She frowned momentarily, eyes sliding to the side beneath pinched brows. That was the kind of look he wanted from her. Uncertainty.

Uncertainty her words did not share. “I can go from the vehicle to the tent and not have to be in direct sunlight too much.” She stood and wandered toward him but passed by to reach for the doorknob. “I hate to kick you out of a room in your home, but I’m really very tired. I think I have jet lag. Jamison never adequately described it to me before. It’s awful.”

He took the hint and rose to move that way. “The way my schedule is arranged, I really should head out in the morning.” Before she had time to rest up.

She opened the door and held it patiently for him. “What time?”

“It’s best to travel in the morning, before the heat of the day.”

“What does that translate to in numbers?”

“Six to ten, give or take.”

She looked at the clock, no doubt calculating just how few hours of rest she’d be getting if she actually went through with the plan. “Okay. I’ll be ready at six.” Another yawn and then she wandered back to the bed, leaving him at the door. “Try to rest if you can. We’ll start tomorrow.”

Pulling down the blankets, she crawled in—robe and all—and reached for the clock to set it.

She’d never go. In the morning, after she’d had a few hours to reset her brain and remember how much she hated to travel, she’d come to her senses and he could trundle her back off to the helicopter pad and send her home. “Good night, Adalyn. Thank you for being willing to try.”

“No offense, Khalil, but I did it for Jamison. I’m sure you’re a nice man and that you deserve help—it’s torture to be kept awake, like real torture, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone—but if anyone else had asked me to come, you’d be on your own.”

She clicked off the light and he allowed himself a tiny smile. He’d probably do anything for Jamison, too; he was closer than Khalil’s real brothers had ever been. “Duly noted. And you have tried to do that by coming all the way here to meet with me.”

“I’ll see you at six,” she said again, then sat up so he could see her only by the light spilling through the door to his chamber. “And, Khalil? Knock first next time. I wouldn’t want to cause you years of therapy.”

What did that mean? She’d already lain back down and burrowed into the pillow, effectively shutting him out. “Sleep well, little sister,” he murmured, shutting the door behind him. Calling her “Doctor” hadn’t done anything for his libido. Maybe calling her “little sister” would be able to keep him from thinking about the lush flesh he’d seen on display.

Jay needed a talk about sending his innocent, pretty little sister off to foreign countries and men who might take advantage of her.

Men of weaker constitution than Khalil.

CHAPTER TWO

COLLEAGUES LIKED TO JOKE that Adalyn had chosen sleep medicine as her specialty in a direct reaction to how badly she’d longed for sleep during medical school and residency.

‘Sleep is for the weak’ was practically a motto of the twenty-first century. A crutch to help people get by in this competitive world and all its requirements for productivity, to prove they weren’t beholden to the hours of vulnerability almost every living creature had to succumb to daily. The concept of sleep as a luxury.

Sacrificing sleep meant compromising health. Physical. Mental. Emotional. And she was doing it again in order to keep up with Khalil’s schedule and not let her brother down. Her brother, who would want her to be healthy! Ah, more contradictions of modern living.

Sleep-deprived, but clean, mostly upright and dressed—unlike the last time she’d seen Khalil—Adalyn knocked on the door to his suite while looking at her watch. Ten to six—she was tired and only passably functioning, but she’d made his hour of departure. She’d even managed to pack a small bag with the bare minimum she’d need for three days in the desert.

No answer.

He’d said he never slept in the palace, though she doubted that was true unless he had been out in the desert as recently as a couple of days ago. Being tired could explain his forgetting to knock before he’d entered her bedroom the previous night, but if he’d gone more than forty-eight hours without any sleep he wouldn’t be nearly as coherent as he had been in their short conversation. But if he was sleeping in after she’d managed to get up and get ready …

He’d been so adamant he wouldn’t sleep.

Truly, insomnia wasn’t what she’d expected she was coming to treat. One of the ways that Jamison had talked her into coming, his strongest method, had been guilt. What did you do when a hero was wounded? You treated them. And by the story he’d told, with bold strokes, Jamison had painted Khalil as a wounded hero. Not two months ago the country had been in revolt, the royals murdered, except for the heir—who was underage and too young to take the throne. Khalil and his brother had undertaken a mission to rescue the boy and the brother hadn’t made it back. But Khalil had, with the boy—the heir who was too young to rule and now away at some school somewhere.

After all that? Well, if she’d had to guess, she’d have said his problem would’ve been nightmares. But then again, that was her specialty.

If he’d heard her knock, plenty of time had passed for him to throw pants on and answer the door. Adalyn knocked again. Still no answer.

Well, two knocks were warning enough. She grabbed her bag—the smallest she’d brought—and marched into Khalil’s bedroom suite.

Coming from a bright room to a dark one, all she could see was the outline of heavy drapes over the bedroom windows. She couldn’t even begin to guess where light switches would be in the chamber, so she marched to one of the windows and pulled open the heavy brocade curtain. And then she could see. Empty. Khalil wasn’t sleeping in. Khalil wasn’t there.

But at least now she could see the door leading out.

He’d all but screamed last night that he didn’t want her there. She’d just expected that once they made a plan he would stick with it. Propelled by the sick feeling she’d been left, she hurried out of the room, just shy of a run.

For once her travel paranoia had done something good for her—despite her exhaustion, when the men had marched her to the suite, she’d still been able to memorize the route out of the palace in case of another sudden civil war—who knew how often those things happened in this place? Or fire. Fire was something she’d want to be able to escape without a map or a guide. One turn, another long hallway, more gilded opulence and crystal light fixtures … doors, doors, doors … another turn. She finally made it to a courtyard, having passed not a single person along the way, and stepped out just in time to see two large trucks pulling away.

Not knowing what else to do, she shouted, “Khalil!”

He sat in the driver-side window of the first truck, and when she’d shouted the name she probably shouldn’t even be using at the palace he did nothing but make eye contact with her through the side-view mirror. He’d heard her but didn’t take his foot off the gas.

A surge of frustration rode a wave of irritation, and before she even knew it she’d broken into a dead run after the truck.

Leaving without her? Make her travel all the way to this place, make her lose sleep and get on dangerous vehicles on land and air and then abandon her where she could be of no help to him, for no danged reason? If they made travel guide recommendations for the perfect time to shout at or make rude gestures at a royal, this would be at the top.

The trucks moved slowly enough in the courtyard to give the illusion that she might catch up with them, but the closer the gate came, the more that hopeful thought evaporated.

Muttering expletives under her breath wasn’t enough, either.

The trucks slowed, making a sharp turn for the gate—too far to reach, and what was she going to do if she got there? Climb on a moving vehicle? Yeah, right.

She’d never been moved to violence by anyone before, but she dropped her bag and grabbed the nearest rock—small enough to throw but big enough to express her frustration—and channeling her anger she let the rock fly with as much force as a really tired nerdy chick could muster.

She didn’t aim for him. She didn’t really aim. She probably couldn’t aim if she tried, at least not beyond the general intention to hit the truck somewhere, but the rock sailed strong and true, impacting the side window of the rear seat of the truck, right behind where Kahlil sat. It immediately spiderwebbed.

That stopped the truck.

That stopped both trucks.

Khalil got out, looked at the window and slammed his door. A couple tiny fragments of glass in the center of the impact rattled and fell out from the force of his gesture. He shook his head minutely at the men in the truck behind and stormed toward Adalyn, red crawling up his neck and over his face. “What the hell was that?”

Right then Adalyn remembered that she was pretty much afraid of everything. Including confrontation. Having big angry men yell at her was also on her Do Not Do list.

But if she backed down now, he’d probably just send her back inside and go on his merry way to wherever he was going.

“Emergency call button.” Adalyn’s short words came out with a grunt, the sound of exertion … mental if not physical. Before he reached her she jogged for the other side of the trucks to the passenger-side door. As she wrenched it open and climbed the running board to step in, strong hands locked on her hips and set her back on the ground.

There, in the relative seclusion of the side door area, he gave her a spin and forced her to face him. He was close. Too close, all but plastering her to the side of the truck, his arms forming a cage around her that kept her in place so he could effectively loom over her. “I know how you Quinns are fond of bucking authority figures, but in this country—and while still at this palace—you can’t behave like that toward me.”

It hit her how he was dressed. No robes today. No suit, either. He wore khakis and a light linen shirt with the collar unbuttoned, something that made him look almost like a normal person, not the autocrat he sounded like.

Their cozy little passenger-door alcove blocked the early-morning breeze and cocooned her in a heady scent of cedar, hints of citrus and something utterly masculine. Looking up into his golden-brown eyes, she felt entirely too vulnerable suddenly, as if he’d see the white flag waving in her pupils and know how close she was to backing down. She squinted at him, relying on the decreased area to make her intentions harder to read. And if it worked, she’d have to remember to use it the next time she got the harebrained idea to yell and throw rocks at a royal.

And she still couldn’t hold his gaze.

Looking at his mouth? That was just as bad, but for more confusing reasons.

Her gaze tracked farther down. His neck was safe, though a vein stood out there, pulsing, and seeing how fast his heart beat caused a little flutter in her belly. Even in her worst imaginings related to this trip, they had all been about accidents, explosions and possibly drowning at sea after a water crash … Never once had she thought she’d have to fight her patient to be able to treat him. The small amount of backbone she’d found quickly faded. All she wanted to do was get her bag and go back inside, but she muttered, “You were leaving me behind on purpose.”

Khalil dropped his arms and stepped back, needing to put some distance between himself and the woman who was supposed to be sleeping through his departure. Distance would help him keep from shaking some sense into her or just putting his hands back on her.

Even after he’d grabbed places on the truck and forced himself to focus on her, his palms still tingled with the memory of firm, curvy hips.

With a slow breath in through his nose, he took a few seconds to look over the courtyard. At least no one but the small private crew who traveled into the desert with him had witnessed the rock showdown.

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to go.” That was true, at least until he’d seen her outside with the overnight bag. After that, he really had no clue why he hadn’t stopped. Maybe the idea that one more hurdle would make her give up … Only, it hadn’t.

She looked him in the eye again, but he could tell from the color in her cheeks and the way her hands now gripped the door frame that her bravery was faltering. “I told you I would come last night.”

“Yes, and then you had a little time to sleep on it and think more clearly. At least, I’d hoped that would be the case.” He managed to calm his voice when he said it, a small victory considering he wanted to shout, Go back inside. Go home. Go anywhere else.

“So you really don’t want me here. You let me come all this way and …” As she spoke, her words came more and more slowly, and those soft green eyes he’d so admired hardened to bare slits. She might be tired, she might not enjoy confrontation and she might be a little intimidated by him, but she was still angry. “I’m not at my best today, but I do still have a little bit of functioning gray matter working for me. You’re sabotaging this on purpose.”

“Adalyn—”

“No. I’m the one talking now!” She released the frame of the door and reached up to jab him once in the chest. “You didn’t just let me come all this way, you assured that I would have the roughest trip possible, right? You have loads of planes—you and Jamison have gone to practically as many countries as the Peace Corps on them—but I had to arrange transport and ship the equipment … and all that. You sent your black-suited henchmen to retrieve me at the last possible minute, but that’s it. You made my journey as hard as you could possibly make it in order to make me be the one who broke a promise to my brother. Didn’t you?”

And he wouldn’t defend it or deny it.

But if she poked him in the chest again, he was going to …

No, there would be no feeling up his best friend’s irritating little sister. He crossed his arms to keep his hands under control and said instead, “You really want to go into the desert? It’s nothing like you read in books. No rest stops between here and where we’re going. Poisonous creatures that sting and bite. Dust, sun, heat—this isn’t some glorified field trip.”

She stepped up on the running board and turned to face him, now somewhat closer to eye level, and used that added height to glare at him, her chin tilting to match the challenge in her posture. “Say it,” she demanded, the tiniest wobble in her voice breaking through his resistance more than the bravado she put on. “Tell me I can’t go. I’ll tell Jamison that I did all I could, but, whatever you promised him, you broke your word. Go ahead, Khalil. Tell me I can’t go. I’m happy to go pack my bags and find a way out of your gilded palace in the sand and go home. But you have to say it, because I came all this way for Jamison, and I’m not going to be the one who lets him down.”

Son of a …

“Just sit down and shut up already,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Adalyn drew a deep, satisfied breath, and at the second her lungs felt filled to capacity the true meaning of her victory pushed the air back out again in a rush. She’d just had a fight in order to be allowed to ride out into the scorching desert in a big dangerous truck with a man who really didn’t want her with him.

So not a victory.

She edged onto the seat and closed the door. He rounded the truck and climbed back in at the driver’s side, slamming his own door and bringing down another shard of glass from the window she’d broken and that now had a tiny hole in the center. The window that now looked … really dangerous.

“Aren’t we going to change to a truck without a broken window?”

“No. Want to change your mind and go back inside?” He pulled on his seat belt and started the truck.

Yes!

“No, I’m going with you unless you order me not to.” And now that she thought about it, that was a really stupid idea.

The trucks started rolling forward, continuing on … Without her bag! “Are we going to turn around and fetch my bag?”

If she’d eaten anything in the past several hours, she’d have been sick. No bag meant no protein bars, no water purification tablets … She was going out into the desert where they probably only had water sources of questionable cleanliness …

“No. Want to change your mind?”

Yes. Yes.

“Is that all you can say?” She grit her teeth and fixed her gaze in front of her. “I’m coming with you. But if I start to stink in the next couple of days I’m going to roll around in your fresh clean clothes so you can bask in my stench just as much as I’ll have to.”

“Good. Someone as irritating as you are shouldn’t smell so good.”

The urge to take off one shoe so she could better beat him with it nearly overwhelmed her limping self-control. Yet more evidence that being sleep-deprived in a foreign land brought out the worst in her.

Could someone get motion sickness if they were only going a few miles per hour? Her stomach thought so. “You’re the one who’s all sultan-like, but I wouldn’t think it kingly to tuck tail and run when confronted with a problem. You should put off your trip and stay home to get treatment.”