Dear Reader,

First, I have to say that it was a massive thrill for me to get to work with Carol Marinelli for this duet. I’ve loved Carol’s books for years, and actually the first two Medical Romances I ever read were by Carol Marinelli and Sarah Morgan … so to say that I was excited is the understatement of the year. And Carol was as lovely and amazing to work with as you’d expect her to be!

Despite my excitement, this was one of the harder books to write, and I have to wonder if it’s because I’m in the process of reinventing myself—again. I’ve done this a couple times in my life, and I think of it as the kind of growth of character that makes growing pains worth the effort—even if it makes some things momentarily harder!

My current process is probably why the idea of figuring out who you are and who you want to be is so fascinating to me, and it’s a theme I’ll probably come back to in future books. Dakan and Nira are each trying to come to grips with who they are, how they got to be that way, and figuring out who they want to be—while falling in love and helping each other along the path.

I hope you enjoy their story, and if you haven’t picked up Carol’s—Seduced by the Sheikh Surgeon—for Zahir and Adele’s story, you should. It’s really fabulous—not that I’m biased or anything …

Amalie Xx

Challenging the Doctor Sheikh
Amalie Berlin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated to Mr John Bradbury, one of my junior high teachers, for his support and encouragement, and for the awesomeness of having a reading nook with a big comfy lounging pillow in the corner of his classroom.

Also really hoping he doesn’t read past the dedication page … the idea of it gives me a wiggins …

AMALIE BERLIN lives with her family and critters in Southern Ohio, and writes quirky and independent characters for Mills & Boon Medical Romance. She likes to buck expectations with unusual settings and situations, and believes humour can be used powerfully to illuminate truth—especially when juxtaposed against intense emotions. Love is stronger and more satisfying when your partner can make you laugh through times when you don’t have the luxury of tears.

Praise for Amalie Berlin

‘Falling for Her Reluctant Sheikh by author Amalie Berlin blew my mind away! This story is definitely worth re-reading and fans are in for a medical treat!’

—Goodreads

Contents

COVER

Dear Reader

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Praise for Amalie Berlin

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

THE HEAT PRINCE DAKAN AL RAHAL had been used to in his youth blistered the back of his neck as he prowled away from the new high-rise apartment building in the heart of his kingdom’s capital. Only a few days as ruler-in-residence since the king had flown to England to attend the impromptu wedding of his eldest son, and already Dakan couldn’t remember ever having a worse mood.

It also made him aware of just how practical the traditional white robes would’ve been to wear, not that practicality would change his mind about wearing them. He liked the clean lines of his dark suits, he just liked them better on soggy winter days in England. What he wouldn’t give for a brittle autumn wind right now. For just one overcast gray afternoon, he might even be convinced to wear the sword tradition dictated for the ruler in residence.

But until either the King or Dakan’s elder brother Zahir—the true heir—deigned to return to Mamlakat Almas, he was stuck.

And if he was stuck, the architect Zahir had hired would damned well be stuck too—right in the flat where she was supposed to be working.

Planning the new hospital as part of the overhaul to finally bring their medical system into the twenty-first century was the one bright spot on his calendar for the foreseeable future, made bearable all the bureaucratic nonsense he had put up with every other hour of the day so far. The hospital was the only thing he could get excited about. But the day he’d finally gotten time to come and plan with her, she’d gone sightseeing.

Typical.

Traffic stopped at the light, and Dakan took off, as fast as he could weave through the waiting cars and trucks, counting on the three royal guards behind him to keep up. Back on the walkway, his feet ate up the decorative tile expanse separating him from the bazaar blocks away.

At least something had changed since his last time on foot in the capital. The cobblestones were gone. The highly trafficked pedestrian walkways had transitioned to decorative tiles in different shades of sand—something he might’ve appreciated if he’d only been seeing it in a photo. But here every time his foot touched the walk his frustration increased. Even his fingernails felt tense as he dug them into his palms.

It wasn’t just having to fetch the person he’d come to meet that had him wanting to ring one of the jets to go somewhere twenty degrees cooler, it was that he was there at all.

England could be cold in the winter, but at this time of year it was downright pleasant. Additionally, he went where he wanted, never had guards trailing after him, dated whomever struck his fancy, and he drove. He had everything there, most important of all freedom.

Since his residency had ended and he’d earned his license, Dakan had snagged a sweet ride, a flat that made panties hit the floor, and had started shopping around established practices to decide where he’d like to begin the career he’d worked years for. That’s what doctors did when their education was finished—opened or joined a practice—but before he’d gotten to see even a single patient he could call his own he’d been summoned home.

All damned fine reasons to wake up irritated.

Another block and the decorative tile walk opened up to a wide lane lined with stalls on either side, sprawling out from one of the oldest buildings in the city—a holdout built by imported Byzantine craftsman. It had been made entirely too well to do the sensible thing and fall in to make way for a new era, an era that required more than a single clogged lane for people doing their daily shopping like that which faced him now.

It would be just as crowded inside—merchants waited years to get to move into the old building. Even with it practically butting up against the impressive modern towers built in the last decade—luxury dwellings, businesses, and prosperity on display two short blocks away—people still had to crowd through open-air shops to buy their groceries and necessities.

As much as Dakan loved his father, when it came to the way he ruled, the way he kept things always the same—as if it’d been so much better back then—made Dakan want to shake him. Or lead a revolt and then leave Zahir to rule, thus freeing Dakan to return to England.

Just find her and make sure to get her number so he could just call her next time she skipped out as if she was here on a tourist visa. Then maybe make a note to have the clerk write her a stuffy memo about the dossiers of royal contractors out there waiting to take her place should they need to.

What did she even look like?

She was British, so fair probably. Maybe dark hair but pale skin. Look for the tourists.

Scratch that. Look for the guard sent to accompany her. Or ring the guard. By all that was holy, he was losing his mind.

“Figure out who her escort is and call him,” he said to his men, leaving them to it and moving into the crowd. He stood taller than most and that helped. It also helped that as people caught sight of him they moved as much as they could to give him room to pass.

But none of these people were the ones he was looking for. A sea of bodies, and none bearing royal colors.

By the time he reached the large arch leading inside, he’d started to sweat.

“They’re in the third arcade, Your Highness,” said a voice at his shoulder and Dakan nodded, yanking off his dark glasses and stashing them so he could see in the much lower lighting as he picked up the pace.

By the time he’d entered the ancient third arcade, he’d caught sight of the colors he’d been looking for. From there, he looked to the side for the woman.

There was a woman on his left, a simple green scarf covering her head. Was that her? Some tourists and those who worked in the country covered their heads out of deference to their customs...

Whatever, she was British so the same rules didn’t apply.

He reached for her elbow to turn her toward him. Wide and startled pale green eyes fixed on him, a boost of the exotic amid the warm tan skin that greeted him. Exotic, but not.

This wasn’t her.

He might get away with touching a foreign woman, but he’d never put his hands on a female citizen unbidden. And this woman was definitely a citizen. Damn.

* * *

Nira Hathaway stared up at broad shoulders and tousled black hair framing the most startlingly attractive male face she’d ever seen. When she’d zeroed in on his dark brown eyes a weird heaviness had hit her chest and her knees had given the sort of twinge no doubt designed to remind her they could bend in the middle. And that they might do so whether she wanted them to or not.

The man snatched his hand back and bowed, his Arabic flowing like music to her ears. “Forgive me, I thought you were someone else.” When he straightened he started to frown and she hadn’t even said anything yet.

“It’s all right, sir. Though I must ask, who did you think I was?” Her Arabic, though better than it’d been a few weeks ago when she’d really started to pour on the effort, still sounded mechanical and sloppy even to her amateur ear, but it was good enough to muddle by.

Since her arrival in Mamlakat Almas, very few people had spoken to her, the only thing she was actually ready for. She’d been learning Arabic for months because she’d wanted to learn it since childhood, but that didn’t mean she spoke to anyone outside of her instructors, who were expecting her to sound somewhat silly. Starting the program as a working adult also meant she didn’t give it as much time as she would’ve liked to. Or hadn’t until the last few weeks.

Normally she’d never have asked Mr. Universe for clarification, but he’d thought she was someone else. That meant she looked like someone he’d expected to find, someone who belonged.

The dark brown eyes with thick black lashes she could’ve been convinced to murder for drifted back to her from her escort, eyes sharpening in focus.

Clearly there was something going on she didn’t get. Something other than her having a possible backside doppelganger roaming the city.

“Are you Nira Hathaway?” the beautiful man asked, switching to English.

She nodded and switched too. She wasn’t going to flirt with the regrettably handsome man. Flirting would be a dumb idea for a number of reasons, not the least of which being her cluelessness about how it’d be looked upon in this country. Women probably didn’t just date in Mamlakat Almas or pick up random men at the market.

“I am. You are...?”

“Dakan Al Rahal,” he said, dark brows pinching together to make a slash across his forehead.

Her stomach soured.

As soon as she heard his name, the resemblance to Zahir came into focus. Same height, same jaw, hair color...she should’ve recognized him. What kind of respectable professional woman became stupid just because a man was...exceedingly handsome?

Though Dakan had a roguish quality to his appearance that probably instilled this reaction in everyone who saw him. And he was a doctor too, like his brother, that much she knew. Doctor. Prince. Adonis in a superbly cut charcoal suit.

There were probably words he expected her to say now.

Think of words. Any words. English words even.

I’m Nira and I like long walks on the beach and...

Not those words.

“I didn’t know we were meeting today, Prince Dakan.” There. Words. Should she have said “Your Highness?” That probably was one of the things she should’ve learned when preparing for the trip, but Zahir had just gone by his name, never once using his title. But here among the magnificent ogival arches and vaulted ceilings? It felt wrong to call this man Dakan, and Mr. Al Rahal wasn’t any better than Mr. Universe.

But his collar, with two buttons open, displayed the kind of wide muscled neck that let you know his shoulders and chest would have the same definition... Mr. Universe probably suited him.

“I suppose it was incorrect to expect you’d be waiting there for me to get round to meeting you. Aren’t you on the clock, Ms. Hathaway?” Unconcealed exasperation rang in his tone, even here among the now unnervingly quiet area of the arcade. It helped clear her fuzzy head. Being falsely accused was so rarely a turn-on.

“Oh, no. I’m not on the clock. I’d never charge a client billable hours without working. My firm only charges billable hours, not days, and only when someone is actively working on a project. The first days I was here I organized the workspace and all the equipment, got everything set up within the system to make sure the backups happened, but today I ran out of things to do. I’ve done some light sketching out of ideas, but—”

“Let’s go back to the flat where we can speak without stopping commerce,” he cut in, bidding Nira to look around them with a simple glance. Practically everyone in the arcade stood watching them, a sea of wide eyes, alert to the point of horror. Which explained the quietness.

They might not understand what was being said—she honestly had no idea how many everyday citizens in Mamlakat Almas would know enough English to translate this conversation—but tone was universally understood. She’d angered the Prince. Nothing good ever came from angering a prince in his own country. Never mind how wrong it felt to be anything even resembling rude or disrespectful. She’d be horrified on her behalf too if she weren’t already horrified.

“Of course, yes, I’m sorry. You’re right.” She gestured for him to go as he wished, shifted her bag of purchases to her other shoulder and fell into step behind him as he wound through the opening crowds.

Some combination of height, shoulders, and royalty was what made him imposing. These were his subjects, that’s why everyone moved. And he was possibly her employer while the project continued, so that explained why she felt a bit...off now too.

It had nothing to do with the expanse of his shoulders. Besides, no way were they that wide anyway, the suit jacket only made them seem so formidable and square that it added to all the other authority rolling off the man.

They stepped out into the sunshine and the thick scent of spices and incense dispersed with the normal city smells and another low odor she couldn’t put her finger on. She’d been smelling it since she’d arrived, something earthy and warm. It wasn’t the sea, though she smelled the fresh salt air too. Mamlakat Almas was a coastal city ringed by rugged desert and mountainous terrain. Maybe it was the desert. Did sand have a smell?

She tried to keep her eyes down as they hurried back to her lavish—and temporary—penthouse flat. Not because she didn’t want to look around, really there was little Nira wanted more than to look around. And not because she felt intimidated, although having her possible new boss angry with her didn’t make her feel like singing.

It was a way of making herself invisible. There was power in eye contact, and this country—as much as she wanted to be here—still felt foreign to her. Being able to blend in was a kind of social invisibility she’d long coveted. The ability to not stand out. She could do that here if she figured out what was socially and culturally expected of her. Blending in wasn’t something she’d ever really done at home. She’d always looked different, felt different.

By the time they got inside, Nira had picked up more of the Prince’s frustration, but the beautiful interior of the building helped her at least.

Speaking might just help them both. Heavy silences made everything worse.

“I love this building. It’s like they plucked the interior of some glorious old nineteen-twenties New York building and encased it in glass. I expected the flat to carry on the same style, but it’s completely modern. Floor-to-ceiling windows, clean, straight lines—gorgeous, but two completely different styles blended together.”

Dakan stopped in front of the lift, pressed the button, then folded his arms. In the polished brass on the lift doors she met his reflected gaze and did the only sensible thing she could think of—she continued babbling.

Maybe he just needed more encouragement to break the ice.

“Take this lift door, for example. It’s definitely art nouveau.” She reached out to trace her fingers along the polished brass design, tracing the flowing curlicues symbolic of peacock feathers, “and I’d say it’s actually from the period—not a replica. The way the design is incised into the metal like a patterned window screen.”

She looked directly at him again, and her stomach bottomed out once more as if she were in the lift already, all hope that he’d take the hint diminishing.

Nothing but a slight lift of his dark brows came in response. Was that a sign of interest for her to continue, or some kind of hint for her to shut up?

Probably to shut up.

He checked that the button to summon the lift was still lit.

Definitely to shut up.

Had she really made him so angry by not waiting around, doing nothing, with no idea of when he might swing by? She’d left once to go to the bazaar close by, it wasn’t like she’d taken a desert trek by camel to skinny-dip at some oasis. And she wasn’t on the clock anyway. Her company had no billable code for sitting around, doing nothing.

She should probably shut up.

In a moment.

“I’ve seen those cut screens in all of the admittedly few places I’ve been to here. The bedroom in the flat has the eastern wall of windows with these pliable die-cut screens that roll down from the ceiling like you might expect a window blind to do. It makes waking up a pleasure, softens the sunshine into little patches of light to ease you into the brightness of the day.”

A bell pinged and the lift doors slid open.

Still no response. And that was top-notch architectural geekery too, completely wasted on this man. Everyone at her firm would’ve been interested in her description of the building details. In fact, her fellow architect geeks had already flooded her daily social media posts with pictures of the building or skyline, always asking for more detail. Because it was interesting. And beautiful. And unexpected.

He stepped into the lift, and she and her escort followed.

Give it up. He was angry, and that was all there was to it. Once they got up there she was definitely going to be shouted at. She should probably be glad he hadn’t deigned to dress her down in public.

She settled in between the men, far enough from each to avoid accidentally touching either, and folded her hands.

Zahir was more personable.

He probably would’ve liked her architectural geekery too.

The lift stopped and as they exited, the flat door swung open, as if someone was simply standing there, waiting for his return. Probably the kind of deference the Princely One expected, for people to wait around to do things for him.

If she wanted this job—and she really did—she had probably better figure out how to do that without screaming at him or stabbing him with her 9H pencils. She could sharpen those suckers to a deadly point, and they didn’t wear down fast. That made for the potential of lots of stabbing between sharpenings, so very few billable hours would need to be devoted to it. Was there a code for Stabbing the Client? She’d just have to use the handy old 999-MISC.

Dakan strode through the monochrome penthouse, his black suit and shiny shoes perfectly complementing the gunmetal gray tile floors, pale gray walls, and the black and white accents. He stopped when he’d reached the work area she’d spent days rearranging while waiting for him to get there.

Where the heck had Zahir gone?

She trailed to the desk and opened her laptop. Might as well get this over with. She could at least have something to work on and he could leave her to it. Then she could schedule her hours off—one couldn’t work twenty-four hours a day—explore the city to satisfy her need to know, and still have a well-filled-in time sheet to show him later with far more than eight hours per day anyway.

“I don’t know what instructions Prince Zahir gave—”

“He didn’t give me instructions. That’s not how we operate,” Dakan said finally, as he grabbed a chair from the other side of the desk and joined her where he could best view the laptop.

The laptop and the photo of her parents.

Given the way their meeting had gone so far, providing him a hint she was in the country for more than professional reasons might be a mistake. She discreetly laid the frame down to cover their faces and went on.

“Okay, then I don’t know what he told you about how we’d been working. I had done some proposals and pitched other ideas with rough sketches or animations—”

“We’re starting over.” Dakan cut off her explanation as he settled behind her—which was at least better than him looming over her shoulder.

Starting over. Right. She went about finding and opening the file for the rough animation she’d first thrown together for Zahir and opened it.

“We started by talking time lines and construction methods so he could have some ideas on how long it’d take to have a fully functioning hospital with the different means of construction. There are a couple of ways to do this and I’ve prepared a sample time line for each.”

“I want the shortest time.”

Impatient. She fixed her eyes on the screen precisely because she wanted to turn around and speak to him.

“The shortest time line to get full use of the building, of course, would be to build it all and then open it. But there’s an alternative, which would allow you to start getting use out of it much sooner but at a limited capacity. Given the current need, it might be worthwhile to have a staged opening.”

“Staged?” Dakan said, and in his reflection she saw him shed his jacket and drop it on the table before leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Open different parts at different times?”

“Yes.” The animation started to play as she spoke. “In a staged opening you start with one department—and here I started the animation with the original hospital because it’s already there. But basically you build one section at a time and finish it for use before moving on to the next part of the facility. That way you can open and just keep tacking on expansions as they become available.

“They do this in smaller communities usually to make medical care available locally at the earliest possible time and start with, say, doctors’ offices. Open those and start seeing patients while they build the next section and maybe add an emergency department. Then testing facilities and outpatient surgery, then open fully with a number of beds and a children’s ward, add a proper obstetrics and surgical department, then add more beds. Like that.”

Reflected Dakan nodded as he sat back. “I like that idea. Do that. But we don’t really have the number of doctors required to staff a building of offices yet. I’d rather start with two different departments at a reduced scale that can be expanded on each side. The biggest part would be the emergency department with some very basic diagnostic equipment—X-ray and a lab—and then have a smaller area to the side where a couple of GPs could have offices in the guise of urgent care for less-than-life-threatening illnesses that still require immediate treatment.”

As the conversation and planning started, the tension she’d felt in him drained away. He definitely seemed as eager to get started as Zahir had been, and as he spoke, the irritation that had saturated his voice during the bazaar confrontation earlier ebbed away.

She could work with this man. It’d be different, but he was a doctor too. They had the same goal: get a facility up and running for the people.

“We could do two different reduced-size units. Any time you split your building efforts, construction slows. So unless the extensions are staggered from one side to the other, you’re going to slow progress to open new units. Unless you really expand the crew.”

“The size of the crew won’t be a problem. Will you be designing as we go too? Is that possible? I know it will take a long time to finish a full design, and I’d rather they break ground and get going sooner than later.”

Nira gave up looking at his reflection and spun in her chair to face him, her eyes finding his immediately. He was still leaning forward, maybe that was why it suddenly felt so intimate. Even just talking shop, their eyes instantly connected and held just a beat too long for her comfort.

Nira would never call herself shy, but this was all new terrain for her, and she didn’t want to make another mistake already. She shifted her gaze to the safety of the middle distance, a thinking point to keep her thoughts on track.

She probably should put off some of her exploring until they got the first unit under way, devote as much time to this as she could now, show Dakan that his goal was her goal. Reflecting well on her firm and gaining a happy client who might ask for her again for later construction efforts would be a great thing for her career.

Her quest could wait.

She could wait.

She’d waited twenty-six years to fill that void, and another few weeks wouldn’t kill her.

CHAPTER TWO

“I HADN’T CONSIDERED designing as we go,” Nira said. It seemed rude to sit with her back to him when she had no real reason to do so, aside from avoiding looking like a sex-crazed royal fan, which her reaction to him was starting to feel like.

He might be a prince, but he was a prince who had not even responded slightly to her geekery. Being attracted to him—while entirely understandable—would be a really stupid idea to entertain.

Keeping her goals in mind? Much more sensible than some overdeveloped Cinderella story. One-sided attraction should always be ignored, especially when the other side was a freaking prince. Stupid. Understandable, but stupid.

There were other aspects of her heritage to explore without adding “Explore Arabic sensuality” to her list. Besides, Mum had already done that, with disastrous effects.

Focus.

“I suppose I could design in stages to an extent, but I’d need to block out the entire footprint first. You know—the general layout, decide the square footage of each department and the best flow of one department to another before I got started. But otherwise I don’t see why we couldn’t go in stages with the proper planning. It’ll be trickier, but designs are always done with specifications and constraints, so not that much trickier.”

And by doing it in stages, she’d actually get to be here for part of the construction! She’d get to see the first building rise that truly came from her ideas. It made the whole job even more exciting for her.

He gestured to a writing tablet lying at her side and Nira slid it over to him with a pen. “Okay, then, you’ll start with the split building we talked about. I’ll get someone else working on selecting good equipment so you’ll have equipment dimensions to work with in your plans.”

Nira leaned slightly to get a glimpse of his writing. Not the chicken scratch she’d expected. “Did you take drafting classes?”

“Drafting?” He stopped, an odd lift to his brows. “That’s not part of a medical curriculum.”

“You write like you’ve done hours of board lettering.”

Silence hung after her words, and suddenly Nira was reminded of the elevator. She’d said something wrong again. It wasn’t a stupid question—lots of people took drafting classes in secondary school. Probably. If they wanted to...draw things.

Light crinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes just before he chuckled. “I have no idea what that means. Board lettering sounds like writing on wood.” Her shoulders relaxed when he laughed, and a dimple appeared in his left cheek that completely wiped the notion of royalty from his persona.

“It’s a way of writing, back to Ye Olde Days of drafting when they tried to make everyone’s writing standardized so it would be universally legible. Most computers have a hackneyed font called Draft-something-or-other now approximating the style. I just meant your writing is very neat and uniform. I thought doctors were all scribblers.”

“My first education was to write from right to left. When I learned English, it was hard to remember at first, so I learned to take care with my...lettering, was it? I want to be understood.”

“Of course. I didn’t think about that. I should’ve, though. My attempts at writing anything in Arabic have been laughable. I drag my hand in the ink and smear it, or I drag my hand on the pencil and smear it. We won’t even talk about calligraphy nibs...” She shrugged and gestured back to the tablet. Stop derailing things. The man might be a doctor when he’s not prince-ing, but right now he was her client, and clients deserved not to be interrupted by nervous women trying not to notice how their dimple contrasts delightfully with their square jaw.

“I need to know patient volumes we’re designing for. Do you want to start small until you get people used to the idea of the hospital?”

He took the redirection with ease, not commenting on her failure not to smear her practice writing. Thank God.

“No. I want to go big. Big enough it’s impossible for people to ignore it. Big and shiny enough to draw attention and bring people in. Starting small just means staying small. It will get the use it needs if we make it important by making it big.”

That was a new tactic. Her career experience wasn’t yet expansive, but everyone she’d worked with had worked within a budget. But when your client ruled a country, he could probably do whatever he wanted with the budget.

“I still need a target number of patients, because my idea of big and yours might be two different things. And I hate to ask this since I know how fast you want me to get started, but it would really be beneficial to me to see what sort of facilities people are currently using.”

He laid the pen down and leaned back in his chair. “You want to go to the hospital? It’s barely functional. I’m not sure what you could get from going there besides tetanus. Though, on the upside, as far as hospital infections go, I doubt you could get MRSA.”

“I’d like to avoid tetanus, so I won’t touch anything. I don’t know what MRSA is, so I’ll just be glad I can’t get it.”

“Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus. It’s like staph on steroids, resistant to most antibiotics, really hard to get rid of. But since antibiotics so rarely make it to Mamlakat Almas, anyone who has it would likely have caught it from someone coming into the country. So, probably right before they died, or healed it themselves.”

“Right. I’d like to avoid that.”

Maybe going to the current treacherous hospital wasn’t the best idea. Except...

“But we’re leaving the current building and adding on? Blending the old and new?”

That was why Zahir had hired her specifically, even without a CV loaded with practical experience. Also it was why the animation had started with the old building.

Dakan scribbled a few more notes on the pad, then leaned back again. “No. It’s on a large piece of land. As we’re going to do it staged, we’ll leave the old hospital up and functioning—such as it is—and begin construction for the new facility in another area of the property. Maybe right beside it, then tear down the old when the new is up and running.”

Definitely not blending the old with the new that way, not that the current hospital was exactly old—it had been built in the twentieth century if the old blueprints were accurate. He was probably exaggerating. Still, she could work with that. And who wouldn’t want a shiny new facility? But she had a point about visiting the hospital besides seeing what she was adding to.

“It’s nothing to me if the old building is razed after the first unit is completed, but I still need to see the facility or visit a healing center. Zahir—I mean Prince Zahir—said there were a few bigger healing centers within the country. I need to see how the waiting and reception areas function, see what people expect so I can make sure the building feels familiar enough to be welcoming.”

He fixed his gaze on her, and for a moment she thought he might finally yell at her, as she’d been expecting him to do in the lobby. But instead he paused for a considered moment and said calmly, “I know blending the old and the new is what you and Zahir discussed, but I really have no interest in that, Miss Hathaway.”

With her not knowing what to call him, every time he said her name it made her a little more aware of their different positions. She’d address that first. “Please call me Nira. I don’t mind.”

“All right, Nira. I’ve inherited the hospital project, and since I’ve had a few more days to think about it, I’ve decided to go a different route from Zahir’s old plans. I want a thoroughly modern hospital. None of that modern on the outside and quaint and nostalgic on the inside nonsense either. Modern. Something that would look at home if it was plunked in the middle of London, Sydney, or New York.”

“Prince Dakan.” She used his title again, since he’d made no overture that she could go without it. “Your brother was quite adamant the king wouldn’t accept such a facility any of the times he’s presented any plans. He batted back all our proposals already too, before we any got further than conceptuals.”

The only reason she had the job was the years of study—or some might say obsession—with studying ancient Middle Eastern architecture. She’d only been in the country three days. Prior to that, she’d simply been emailing Zahir proposals, which the King had constantly knocked back. She had loads of ideas, doodles, and even a few sheets of paper with what could almost pass for sketches, but no idea if any of it would work.

“Three days, sitting in a fancy flat in your kingdom, isn’t enough to get what I need to design anything properly. All I’ve seen, aside from a fantastic skyline, has been the bazaar today and the airport the other day.”

“My father isn’t here,” Dakan reminded her, then moved to her drafting table, where he began riffling through the dotted newsprint paper sketches she’d used to think on. “He won’t be involved in the design.”

“But isn’t he coming back?”

“I certainly hope so,” he murmured, stopping at the conceptual fountain she was most proud of, and giving it a good look.

“Water makes for a soothing environment. It’s good for waiting areas,” she explained, trying not to sell the idea too hard. She liked it too much to risk so bold an opening maneuver.

“It’s also good at slowing down progress. The objective is to open as soon as possible. Embellishments will come later.”

“The footprint, the basic layout, needs to be present for later, though. And there are structural issues—like plumbing and power—that need to be accounted for in the building stage, or you’ll just end up having to rip up what we’ve already built.”

“Fine, then put what is required for the fountain in the foundation so it can be added in later. Then put a floor over it and make it useful.”

At least he seemed to like it.

“Please don’t take offense at this, but I really need to see what is expected now. I don’t even know if the waiting rooms can be together, or if they need to be segregated by class or gender or some other classifier. You can thank the internet that last week I learned how to tie a scarf and also that henna is amazing but far too hard for me to do on myself no matter how much I like to draw or doodle. I may know Middle Eastern architecture and art back to ancient times, yes, and I’ve been learning Arabic for about eighteen months, but pretty much every other aspect of your culture is still very foreign to me. I don’t want to mess it up, and waste time and money as I struggle to get it right.”

“Aren’t your parents immigrants? Or your mother at least?”

Her mother? Maybe hiding the picture wouldn’t save her from this discussion.

“My mother is British. Ginger, even,” Nira murmured, wariness seeping into her belly. How had they gotten round to this subject? “I know I look like I should know these things, but I grew up in a tiny village in the north of England, where everyone looked like she did, and no one looked like I...like we do.”

“Your father?”

Her father. Or the mystery that was her father. The wariness turned to lead. “I don’t know.”

Nira knew exactly three things about her father: what he looked like in the one and only picture she’d ever seen of him, currently face down beside her laptop; that he was from the Middle East somewhere; and that her mother refused to ever answer any questions about him. She had never allowed Nira to explore those aspects of her heritage.

She’d surmised their relationship had ended badly. But she wouldn’t be ashamed about it. So what if she didn’t know her father? Plenty of people didn’t.

Lifting her chin, she made herself look him in the eye. Being illegitimate was probably heavily frowned on here, and he could disapprove all he liked. Whatever nonsense had gone on with her parents had nothing to do with her capabilities.

“My point is I need information or the building will be as culturally clueless as I am. You want people to use the facility when it’s open, and so do I. The best way to ensure that is to make them feel at home there.”

The Prince nodded too slowly for her to read the meaning behind it, those dark eyes giving no hint of his opinion on her parentage. “We’re not so different here. People are still people, Nira. It doesn’t matter what they look like, or where they grew up.”

So maybe he didn’t care? Not that she should care either way, but right now navigating this place required she do a lot of guessing and reading between the lines. But his reaction was far enough from her expectations that she couldn’t decide if it could give her any clues for future interactions with other people here.

“They need to feel like they’ve not been tucked away somewhere and forgotten in a little waiting room, and they need to not feel like they’re lost in the crowd of a big waiting room.” He grabbed the pad of paper again, thought for a moment and then scribbled down some numbers beside a list of prioritized departments. “Use these numbers to rough out your footprint. I’ll get someone working on the equipment, hunt up a firm to handle the interior, and get some examples of facilities I like and want you to aim for. I’ll be back in two days.”

Two days. Nira nodded mutely. What else could she do?

He picked up his jacket and swung it on as he strode for the door.

She looked at all he’d written down—numbers, departments with arrows linking them up, which she could only interpret as clues as to where to locate them. One department was missing.

She called after him, “What about healers? Will they have their own department?”

“No healers. Doctors!” he answered, not even breaking stride.

* * *

Two days later a very tired Nira stood at the massive plotter and sorted out the drawings that had already fallen into the bin.

Any second now Dakan would blow in and she’d find out whether or not he thought she could handle the job, whether her ideas were up to snuff.

She shuffled another print to the drafting table and smoothed it out, trying to uncurl the sheet as the last drawing rolled off the plotter.

“You’re still wearing it?” Dakan said from behind her, chuckling as he made his way in.

“Wearing what?”

“The scarf.” He nodded to her head. “I figured you’d have abandoned it by now.”

Nira reached up and touched the colorful silk carefully. The housekeeper, Tahira, had helped her with her technique in the days since she’d seen him last. “I thought it would be respectful to your ways for me to wear a scarf. And...well, I just want to.”

“They’re not exactly my ways. My ways are a little more complicated, and honestly I miss England. Working with a British woman is a perk for me. Aside from that, we’re indoors now in your home, out of public view.”

“But you’re a stranger,” Nira countered. Anyone would hear the Gotcha! in her tone. She knew that much at least—a scarf should be worn in public or with strangers.

“Am I?” The shock in his voice couldn’t be anything but an act, but it still made her smile. “I’ll have to do something about that, then. You can get to know me over dinner, and tomorrow you won’t have that argument. And then you can tell me why you want to wear the scarf when you’re at home.”

With their rocky start, she’d assumed that same general tension would permeate all their interactions, but his mood had drastically improved today. He might even be flirting with her—how weird would that be?

“Call me Dakan because we’re friends now, at least in private. Right?”

Setting the colorful silk and clips on the side table, she smoothed her hands over her hair to make sure it wasn’t sticking up absurdly.

He smiled then, flashing that dastardly little dimple pitting his left cheek—undoubtedly designed to make her heart stutter.

Good grief, the man was still beautiful, and she’d spent a large part of the last two days trying to convince herself she’d just been fooled by her memory—it was pretty much all she’d been able to talk to herself about. And she’d been terribly convincing. Up to ten minutes ago she’d have sworn he’d only been that handsome in hindsight, and maybe through some kind of Cinderella story memory filter. But here he was, in the flesh, making her insides quiver...

And judging by the twinkle in his eye as he smiled, he was used to knocking women’s feet out from under them.

Well, her feet could just get back under her, charming, beautiful man or not. Her goals still mattered, and one of them was not to go to a foreign country and have an ill-advised romance. Those always ended badly, or, if she listened to Mum, sometimes worse than that.

He summoned Tahira, ordered dinner to be prepared, and then turned back to her drawings.

For the next hour they went over the different layouts she’d come up with—high-rises versus sprawling facilities with clusters of smaller buildings and parking structures. And finally settled on a layout that combined the best of both.

“Did you bring the examples you talked about?” she asked, after shuffling off the printouts that had been rejected and leaving his choices on the drafting table. “I’d like to look at them and get started.”

“After dinner.”

“Or during. We could have a working dinner, look at what you’ve brought.” She looked around him, expecting to see a bundle of prints somewhere. “Where are they?”

Dakan fished a DVD out of his jacket pocket, bumped the button on her laptop and loaded it into the tray. “I don’t want a working dinner. But I’ll set this up...” His words dried up as he caught sight of the framed photo beside her computer.

Attractive couple. Fair, freckled woman with red hair. Man with dark hair and tanned skin.

He picked it up to examine the photo more closely, and found himself looking at the frame, which was constructed of tiny gray bricks and mortar.

It was very well made, and obviously done by hand—there were just enough irregularities in the bricks to see small fingers had formed and smoothed them. The architect had spent hours constructing it to fit the photo—the one personal item on her desk.

“Are these your parents?” he asked, looking back at her as he did so.

There was wariness in her gaze again, like that he’d seen in her the other day when they’d spoken of her father.

The father she’d claimed to not know.

“I thought you didn’t know who your father was?”

“I don’t. Not his name or where he’s from—aside from a Middle Eastern country. All I have is this one picture.”

She carefully extracted the photo from his hand as if he might break it. Or like she’d saved that photo from being destroyed in the past...and now protected it with tiny bricks she’d made herself.

“He looks...” Familiar.

Familiar but grainy—the photo was old enough that he couldn’t be certain.

How likely was it for him to know her father anyway? Millions of people lived in “a Middle Eastern country...”

CHAPTER THREE

“HAPPY,” DAKAN SAID INSTEAD. “They both look happy. I’m guessing things went downhill after that picture if your mother isn’t giving you other information.”

“That’s my guess as well.”

His Big Emotion warning system started to become more insistent. She wouldn’t carry around her unidentified father’s picture for no reason, but continuing to poke at this situation—when he already knew nothing he could say would make it better for her—was a bad idea.

But the familiarity of the man bugged him.

“Do you know where that was taken?”

“No. She never told me what country she was in. I assume it was his country, but I really don’t know. Maybe he was living abroad.”

“So she came here somewhere, had a fling, got pregnant, and went home?”

“I guess.”

She grew stiffer the longer they spoke about it, no trace evident of the smile she’d returned earlier when he’d found himself flirting. Instead, her shoulders stretched this way and that as she spoke, trying to dispel tension.

“I’d like to tell you more, but I really don’t know anything.” She placed the photo back on the desk, though a little further back this time. “I used to ask her all the time, but she’d never answer. And she always shut down any attempts I made to learn about that aspect of my heritage when I was growing up. Burned a book or two, even! One was from the library...”

The housekeeper informed them dinner was ready, and Nira gestured to the guest bathroom. “Would you like to meet in the dining room?” She darted off like someone wanting to escape.

He really shouldn’t pry into her background. He liked people. He was good with people. But big, sticky emotions weren’t really his thing. Definitely Zahir’s territory. He’d know what to say to her to make her feel better—good leaders were like that—but he just didn’t.

There was one thing he could do very well, which he was pretty sure would make her feel better. Kissing her had been in his mind since he’d dragged her out of the market and marched her back home. Which was weird, and probably some kind of side-effect of being stuck where he usually avoided showing interest in women out of fear his father would start beating the marriage drum again. She might be British, but she looked like those princesses he and Zahir had been threatened with for years. So, exactly opposite from his type.

Dakan went for pretty much anything he could only really get abroad—blond or red hair, pale skin, pale eyes...

She had the eyes. Green and gorgeous, they stood out—not that she wouldn’t have otherwise. One thing the scarf always did wonderfully was focus attention on a woman’s face. Even without the long silky dark hair she’d been hiding, she was something to look at.

She didn’t belong in Mamlakat Almas, and theirs was a progressive kingdom if you ignored the archaic medical system.

When Zahir had rebelled and gone back to England to marry Adele, it’d been because of their father’s refusal to change, but somehow their father had given permission for the hospital project to continue as they desired—something he hadn’t even mustered the energy to ask about when he’d heard. He was still more than half-certain that whatever work they did on the hospital would be for nothing once the King strapped the sword back on. Another reason he needed Zahir to come home and take over, because if he managed to get a system set up that allowed for healers and then left his father to run it? Bad things would happen.

He was probably doing this all wrong anyway, but the project had been passed and even if he wasn’t the one born to lead, he had to make an effort. Taking his frustration and questions to Zahir would not only put pressure on his brother to come home and get on with leading before Dakan lost his mind, but it would also upset his brother’s newfound marital bliss and further prompt the King to start foisting brides and selection ceremonies onto him.

His problems couldn’t be fixed any time soon. Nira didn’t know how lucky she was with her background, despite feeling the absence of her father’s presence in her life. Dakan knew all about feeling trapped. Freedom was important, people often didn’t realize just how important it was until they no longer had it. And the only place he had it was in her country.

They both emerged from washing up at the same time and he waited for her to sit before joining her. “So, how is it you’ve become an expert in our architecture at your age when your mother burned your books?”

“She ignored the books on art and architecture, or maybe she didn’t realize they’d have chapters devoted to Middle Eastern art and architecture. Plus, they were from the library. After she had to replace that one book, she got a lot less fire-happy.”

He shouldn’t smile at that—really, who burned books these days? But the phrase “fire-happy” tickled him. “That’s the contraband you smuggled into your house as a teenager? Art books?”

“What did you smuggle in? Page Threes?”

Flirting. Sexy teasing, he loved sexy teasing, and the innocent look she gave him over her water glass brought an urge to escalate it. “I didn’t have to smuggle in anything. I was at an all-boys school. Others smuggled. I just enjoyed the fruits of their labor.”

“Lazy.”

“Smart,” Dakan countered. He could hardly keep from staring at the sexy architect but he forced his mind to focus. Stick with the facts. “Is your mother still living?”

She didn’t quite flinch, but a fleeting grimace told him the situation wasn’t good, whatever it was.

“She’s alive. Healthy. Very unhappy that I’m here.”

“Is she ringing you daily and demanding you come home?” He would be.

“We’ve moved past Official Anger Level. We’re now at the Not Speaking stage. I never pressed her too hard for information about my father—she didn’t want to talk about him and I knew it hurt her. But I haven’t had that same consideration from her. I email her daily so she knows I’m still alive—she has wild theories that I’ll be kidnapped and sold into some kind of sex slavery here. She probably thinks... Wait a minute, do you have a harem?” Her voice went up so comically at the end Dakan had to concentrate not to choke on his drink.

“It was disbanded before my mother and father married. One of mother’s stipulations to agree to the betrothal.”

“Good for her!” Nira relaxed after her near shout hadn’t drawn the servants, and settled down again. “But, sorry, no, we don’t actually exchange words.”

“Are you emailing pictures?”

“There’s a thought, but my emails or texts all say ‘Still alive.’ Probably pretty bratty of me to phrase it that way, but I’m kind of out of words where the situation is concerned.”

No matter the snappy way she described it, he could see the situation bothered her immensely. She fidgeted with her cutlery, pushed food around her plate... “Does she know you’d been learning Arabic prior to coming here?”

“She knows now. I didn’t tell her at the time.”

“More smuggled textbooks?”

Her smile returned, though only at half-strength, and she shook her head. “I only started learning Arabic after I left university, about a year and a half ago. I bought all the units of an immersion language system, but turns out it takes a long time to do a unit. You can’t just sit down and become fluent in a weekend.”

He switched over to his native tongue, testing her. “So you’ve learned how to say hello and ask for directions?”

She’d just taken a bite, but paused to listen as he spoke, not even allowing herself to chew before he’d finished speaking. Still at the extreme-attention-paying stage.

Her response was stilted, with many pauses and errors in pronunciation here and there that reminded him of the way children started learning to make certain sounds. They continued at a slow pace, but she mostly answered him in Arabic, with short dips into English when words failed her.

She wanted to explore her heritage, hence enjoying the scarves, and that’s what she’d do more of when the project was really going and it wouldn’t slow progress.

He felt a twinge of guilt. Time off was important, and no one knew that better than a doctor just finishing residency. “I know most people work about one-third of the day, and I’m asking more of you. You should really take some time to move around. There’s probably a gym somewhere in the building—I have no idea. But if not, I can have a machine of your choosing sent up. Sitting is the new cancer.”

“Do you just have equipment lying about?” The question went from Arabic to English then back again, but she had a solid enough foundation to leave him confident she’d get better the more she practiced.

“There’s a well-stocked gym at the palace. I can send over whatever you like, then take it back after you’re finished with it.”

“Elliptical?” English.

He nodded. “Done. And after we get going—after there is a plan in place for the initial building—I’ll make sure you get some time off to explore. Perhaps Dubai?”

“Why not here?”

“No reason. Though if you get hurt in Dubai, there are better medical facilities available. Did Zahir have you bring antibiotics with you?”

“No, but he said if I got sick to call him first.”

“Call me first.”

“Are the healers so bad? It seems like you would have a...low...” Again she paused. Her Arabic wasn’t bad, but she’d gotten to the point it wouldn’t improve if she didn’t force it to with conversation. “Low...number of people...alive...if they did not offer some good?”

“Population.” Dakan filled in the word she’d been unable to find. “The healers do some good, but the problem is they often don’t realize their limits. My mother’s healer realized...” He stopped himself before he really got going. The Queen wouldn’t thank him for spreading her business around, but it had somehow started to come out. “They don’t do well with infections, for instance. And anything that requires surgery.”

He couldn’t explain about his mother’s medical condition, or the terrible birth he knew she’d suffered with his younger brother all those years ago, that was all too personal to lay out. Not only for the sake of his mother’s privacy but because he hadn’t yet forgiven his father for putting her into that position.

The question in her eyes made him want to tell her. He and Zahir had spoken briefly, but as much as he loved his brother Dakan was all too aware that they weren’t equals. Always aware of it. Which was a good part of why he wanted to be anywhere but home right now.

“Is she all right now? Your mother?”

The question made him focus and Dakan nodded. “Two months ago she had to go to England to have surgery she should’ve had ages ago, but couldn’t because of the way things are here. After years of quiet illness...”

Absolute sympathy shone in those lovely green eyes. “Is she still there?”

“No. She and my father went away on holiday together. Somewhere. I have no idea where. She’s much better now than she had been before. For years. One thing I can say for her healer, he eventually realized the need for surgery, but he’s exceptionally progressive compared to other healers. And my father...”

He didn’t even really know what to say about that. He probably, in fact, shouldn’t say anything about his father, but if anyone would understand family drama it would be this woman, who had spoken so openly about her past. Even now, he saw only concern in her eyes and unasked questions. He wanted to explain.

He switched back to English, not only to aid her understanding but also to make it less likely the housekeeper or any of the guards would understand if they happened to overhear. “The reason I said no healers before is because I don’t want them getting in the way. If I give them too much room now that the King has apparently decided he’ll give a new hospital a chance, I can see the system being easily corrupted and the doctors pushed into a secondary role once I’m gone and it’s all running—which would probably make me put my fist through something.” Or borrow weapons from the hall of armaments and do something else violent. “Forgive me. I’m...”

“Passionate about this. I understand. You should be. Though I don’t really understand what healers do. Is it homeopathic remedies?”

“The healers and attars work together, diagnosing and brewing tonics and other treatments. But their decoctions have actual measurable amounts of different ingredients—herbs, minerals, food, oils, spices. Most with medicinal qualities. They also try to treat the whole body, not just the particular injured part. Homeopaths focus on distillations of different kinds, taking ingredients down to one part in millions, and largely rely on placebo effect to treat their patients.”

“No love for the homeopathic medicine, I see.” Her flirting smile returned, and somehow the situation seemed a little less dark suddenly.

“No.”

“But treating the whole body sounds like a good thing.”

“It’s not a bad thing. It’s just about them knowing their limits.”

She considered his words for a long moment and then tilted her head at him. “So, you want to guard against the King undoing your hard work, but you don’t know how they will respond to your decision to change their plans?”

“If Zahir wants healers, he can come back here and handle the hospital project himself.”

And, Lord, did he hope Zahir came to the same decision.

Zahir’s plan wasn’t exactly wrong—it would still be great for their people—but he wasn’t only doing things this way to make his brother come home and free Dakan to return to England. Even if that was also a fine reason to do whatever he wanted. Not that he usually needed a reason to do what he wanted.

What he really wanted right now was to make Nira Hathaway smile at him again, something he could do just fine on his own.

“Before you start thinking I’m not up to the task of building this hospital,” Dakan said, affecting his most serious frown as he spoke, “I’ll have you know I built the biggest Lego playhouse you’ve never seen when I was growing up. I was a Lego master. Everything I built had perfect right angles and I didn’t even try. I didn’t even have to use a...a...” The frown cracked when he couldn’t think of the right word and used one from her professional vocabulary. “A protractor?”

Though he could see the spark of amusement-tinged exasperation in her eyes—he was, after all, going to make her work on something that might very well be overruled when the King returned and found what he’d been getting up to—she played along. “I don’t know, that sounds like a challenge. Do you still have that playhouse? And just for future reference, the word you were looking for is a set square. You use a set square to make things square.”

“A set square? Really?”

She nodded.

“Okay, noted for any future Lego house stories. But, no, I don’t still have it,” Dakan said, returning to his serious expression. “It got blown up.”

Her amusement disappeared just as fast as it had arrived. “Someone bombed your Lego house?”

He held her wide, startled gaze for several long, somber heartbeats, and then let himself smile. “You fell for that so easily, Nira. Not all Middle Eastern countries are riddled with war and violence.”

A mutinous wrinkle formed on the bridge of her nose, and she turned her gaze to every item on the table.

The woman was going to throw something at him! Food? Something breakable?

She reached for the bread.

“Wait...” The temptation was there to arm himself for a food fight, but that might’ve been a step too far even for him.

Her hand closed on the still-warm flatbread and she ripped off a chunk.

“Zahir and I stole a trebuchet when I got tired of the little house, made the servants help us move everything to the beach, and obliterated it with a barrage of the biggest rocks we could carry.”

There.

A bright, musical peel of laughter erupted from her even as she turned her head and gave him the most dubious sidelong look.

“I’m fairly certain if you look long enough, you can still find Lego blocks on the beach by the palace.”

“Okay, you’re forgiven for being a dork. And you’re lucky you don’t have that Lego any more. I might have to challenge you to a Lego battle, which would mess with our hospital timeline.”

“Can’t have that.”

“Would be a tragedy.”

“Or we could go for a Lego hospital instead, scrap all this planning nonsense. Cheerful red, blue and yellow bricks. Green roof. Easy snap assembly.”

She pretended to consider his suggestion, nodding as she munched on the bread. “I have to ask: where in the world did you find a trebuchet? And how did you steal one, for goodness’ sake? How old were you when you got tired of your Lego playhouse, twenty?” Then she did chuck a small bit of bread at him, bouncing it off his chest.

He picked it up and ate the evidence before the housekeeper could catch them. “I was six. Zahir was almost twelve. It was a very small working model from the Hall of Armaments at the palace. One of our ancestors had built this small trebuchet a few centuries back for some reason, I have no idea why. It’s perfectly preserved, still in working order, and has since been chained to the floor. We took off with it. Then we both got punished, Zahir more than me because I was six. Big lecture about responsibility and being good leaders, which I’ve come to believe he took far too seriously.”

Talking and laughing with her was enough that Dakan could almost forget where he was and where he had to return to when he left the penthouse.

In the palace and on duty, he had to be serious. He had to be what was expected of him, or at least try to be. He had to be post-trebuchet Zahir, and he sucked at being any version of Zahir—even his crappy knock-off attempt chafed terribly.

Something he couldn’t fix right now. It was better to try and fix Nira’s problems than his own. And he was starting to think he could. The more he spoke with her, the more he became convinced he’d seen her father somewhere. Not just seen but spoken with. She had mannerisms he’d have sworn were learned but which seemed to have been inherited.

He’d definitely seen that sideways look before. At some point in his life. Here, maybe. Maybe in a neighboring country he’d visited for some reason. It hadn’t been in England, and as little time as he’d spent in Mamlakat Almas since going away to school young, it shouldn’t be too hard to revisit those short months per year and what he’d gotten up to during holidays.

He’d have to sneak in and get a shot of that photo of her parents when she wasn’t looking, so he could have some time to really study it, perhaps jog his memory.

It was in there somewhere, buried, but it would be cruel to get her hopes up if he couldn’t produce the information.

“Now, back to Arabic. You want to become fluent so you must practice. Now, which famous ancient buildings did you reconstruct with your Lego?”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NEXT DAY Dakan sat in his father’s study, signing the daily papers staff brought him, when his mobile rang.

Nira?

He dropped his pen and hurried across the study to where he’d set his mobile phone charging earlier. He’d given her his number in the hope she’d call—not that he wanted her to have trouble with the examples he’d given her, but talking to her was the highlight of his days in residence. He wanted to make her misbehave a little, a desire she already harbored, or she wouldn’t have reacted to his flirting in a way that had made him flirt with her even more, a way that made him want to throw off his responsibilities and hers and spend the day just talking. Playing.

Their verbal sparring was the closest thing to play he could remember having had at home since the trebuchet incident.

He lifted the phone and turned to look at the display. Not Nira. But it was the next best thing.

“Zahir. I’m running amok, you really should get back here and stop me.”

“Good morning to you too, Dakan.” His brother, ever able to recover smoothly from whatever Dakan threw at him. “Have you reinstated the harem?”

“No, but now that you mention it...” he returned to the seat and leaned back “...I like that architect you hired. I think she’d look fantastic in something sheer and dirty.”

“It would be Mother you’d have to fear if you tried it. Besides, Nira works for you. Don’t go putting your cheesy moves on her.”

“Too late.” Come on, Zahir, be the responsible one. Dakan hated being the responsible one.

“You’re lying.”

Dakan tsked. “I’m the ruler in residence so don’t start flinging insults. I may have to...figure out some kind of...diplomatic something. Sanction. That’s the word. Or sentence you to hard labor. Here. In the palace.”

“I thought you liked Nira. It’s such a chore, working with her?”

“It’s not her, believe me. She’s gorgeous and mysterious. And a little bit weird.”

“Just like you like them.”

Dakan laughed this time. “Yes. Somehow, despite not being my type, she sort of is my type. How’s Adele? Missing the palace? Let me talk to her. I bet she’d like to come and visit for a few decades.”

“Adele’s pregnant.”

Dakan’s stomach bottomed out from those two simple words. “That was quick.”

And that was the wrong reaction...

“Yes.” Zahir let the word hang and Dakan didn’t even have to ask what it meant.

Zahir wasn’t coming home. No way would he let her deliver here, with the medical system being what it was.

“Congratulations.” There it was, the right response, even if he had to strain to get it out.

Zahir let the pause extend for a moment, no doubt searching for the right thing to say to Dakan. “It’s only forty weeks. Less now, since it’s been a few weeks already.”

“Right.” The filler word squeaked past his lips, just because he needed something to say.

Plans dashed. Would anything be able to shorten his stay now?

“Father and Mother will be back before then. A couple more weeks,” the voice said down the line.

But the hospital would still need to be Dakan’s job. He couldn’t just up and leave as soon as their parents returned, though that was how things had always gone for Zahir: live in London and come home only when he was needed. Hospitals took a long time to build, more than a year. Probably a couple of years. Stuck.

But a birthing center... That he might be able to get done in a few months.

* * *

It’d been two days since she’d last seen Dakan, and Nira had spent most of that time working. In between viewing the examples he’d had compiled, she’d spent too much time mentally replaying their dinner and the thrill that had rushed through her with every playful word and flirting smile. But the rest was about proper working, still a lot of work between spells of idiocy.

The only other time away from her workstation was to tend to necessities, so her timecard—not that Dakan had made a single other mention of the thing—was so filled it shouldn’t be legal in a civilized society.

Today she’d even showered and put on lounging pajamas to work in. The dresses she’d taken to wearing since she’d arrived were largely comfortable but light in color and they all had sleeves. Sleeves hindered her board work and invariably ended up smudged all around the elbow with fresh graphite—but the pajama top was sleeveless.

Besides, it was just her and Tahira. The guards she had stay outside the flat and downstairs, aside from their hourly checks, so they probably saw her bare arms from the back a time or two when they peeked in and she sat bent over the drafting table, her hair twisted into a sloppy knot on top of her head and secured by pencils.

“Good afternoon.”

Dakan’s voice rumbled down her spine, and she suddenly wished she’d worn sleeves to hide the wash of goose-bumps racing over her skin.

Thank goodness she’d had the forethought to put on a bra.

Pencil in hand, she turned on her stool and smiled so brightly she hoped it would drown out all other aspects of her appearance.

“Not good?” he corrected. “Well, I’m about to make it more interesting.”

She looked at what he carried. Tucked under one arm he had a bundle of blueprints, and in his hand a couple more disks for her. “More examples?”

“Yes. And no. Here, these are all the plans of the hospital that’s there now.” He didn’t say anything about her appearance, but here she stood in the presence of a gorgeous prince, at best disheveled and without a drop of make-up. Her bun felt loose and baggy too, she just knew it was hanging to the side as if she’d had her hair done by a drunken five-year-old.

Lifting one hand, she felt for the pencils and surreptitiously slid them free so she could unwind the still-damp mass of hair. At least that was somewhat concealing, even if it was the sloppiest mess of waves and tangled curls he had probably ever seen. To his credit, although he stopped unrolling the prints and shuffling papers around to look at her, he said nothing.

“Oh, well, that’ll be helpful so I can see how it’s working now. I just had a footprint of it before.”

“That’s not why I brought them.” He spun her chair, urged her to sit with one hand and then rounded the table to sit opposite her. “We’ve got a slight change in plans.”

“Change? Okay. What kind of change?”

“We’re not working on the hospital any more right now.”

Nira squinted at the plans he’d unrolled. “But this is the hospital.”

“Yes, I mean I want you to stop working on the new hospital designs for the time being. There are bigger worries.”

“New project?”

“Old building, new project. So I guess it’s still the same project, but we’re shifting priorities. We need to remodel the old theater and add a small addition to the building there. The surgical theater there isn’t only underused, it’s horrifying. I’ve liaised with the neighboring kingdoms and their hospitals are ready to receive any surgical patients we have for the next couple of months. And when I say remodeled, I mean gutted. Completely redone. And I want a tiny wing added to the side with a nursery to accommodate twins...”

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