Healing The Sheikh's Heart

A doctor for the desert king

Brooding billionaire Sheikh Idris Al Khalil wants one thing—the gift of hearing for his daughter, Amira—and he’s willing to pay anything to get it! Enter Dr. Robyn Kelly, whose whirlwind approach to life sends his senses into overdrive.

Now, as the tension between Paddington’s ENT specialist and the guarded sheikh mounts, Robyn can’t help but wonder...is life in the desert with Idris and little Amira the family happy-ever-after she’s always dreamed of?

Dear Reader,

This is the first time I have written for a proper continuity, straight from the heart of Mills & Boon’s Medical Romance editorial team at True Love Towers, and let me tell you—I’d do it again in a heartbeat!

I absolutely adored writing this book and working with the other wonderful authors. What a fabulous experience, much like working in a hospital with a smart, engaging, funny, busy-falling-in-love team of doctors. I know it’s an oft-trotted-out line that a writer’s profession is a lonely one, but this job certainly wasn’t. It was definitely a group experience, and so much the better for it—in my humble opinion!

I became so engaged in the world of Paddington Children’s Hospital I even ran a half-marathon for Great Ormond Street Hospital, London’s premier (real-life) hospital for children. And I’m no athlete. It took a while, but it was worth it. I hope you find yourself enjoying ‘working’ your way through this series as much as I enjoyed writing Healing the Sheikh’s Heart.

Remember not to be shy. I love hearing from readers.

You can find me on Facebook,

Twitter (@annieoneilbooks) and on my website: annieoneilbooks.com.

Happy reading!

Annie O’

ANNIE O’NEIL spent most of her childhood with her leg draped over the family rocking chair and a book in her hand. Novels, baking, and writing too much teenage angst poetry ate up most of her youth. Now Annie splits her time between corralling her husband into helping her with their cows, baking, reading, barrel racing (not really!) and spending some very happy hours at her computer, writing.

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Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Healing the Sheikh’s Heart

Annie O’Neil

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This one is for all the gals who worked on the series. I was a first-timer and you made it a wonderful experience. A special shout-out to the fabulous Fiona Lowe, who always helps me keep my head screwed on, and Karin Baine, my partner in googly-eyes.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

Copyright

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 look 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.

He arched an eyebrow as she twisted around, untangling herself from the tan overcoat and about three meters’ worth of hand-knitted scarf, muttering all the while about “British summers.”

She pulled off the coat, managing to get an arm stuck in one of the sleeves, went through a microscopic and lightning-speed thought process before, rather unceremoniously, yanking her arm out and turning the sleeve inside out in the process. She gave an exasperated sigh, bundled the whole coat up with the scarf and tossed it into the corner of the überchic sofa before flopping onto the other corner in a show of faux despair.

He felt exhausted just watching her. And not a little intrigued.

Idris flicked his eyes away from Robyn’s, finding the golden glow of them a bit too captivating. More so than her ensemble: a corduroy skirt that had seen the washing machine more than a few times, a flowered top with a button dangling precariously from a string. The trainers... More student than elite surgeon.

She was a marked contrast to the four preceding candidates who had all looked immaculate. Expensive suits. Silk ties. Freshly polished shoes. All coming across as if their mothers had dressed them for their first day at school. He huffed out a single, mirthless laugh. Little good it had done them.

“What? Is there something wrong?” Robyn asked, her gaze following his to her cream-colored top dappled with pink tulips, a flush of color hitting her cheekbones when her eyes lit on a stain.

“Ah! Apologies!” she chirped, then laughed, pulling her discarded, 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.