Читать книгу Carrying The Sheikh's Baby - Heidi Rice - Страница 9

Dr Smith, you need to come to my office ASAP. You have a very important visitor who cannot be kept waiting.

CATHERINE SMITH PEDALLED through the gates of Cambridge’s Devereaux College at breakneck speed, her boss Professor Archibald Walmsley’s curt text making sweat trickle down her forehead and into her eyes.

Braking at the side of the redbrick Victorian monolith that housed the faculty offices, she leapt off the bike and rammed it into the cycle rack before swiping her brow. Rounding the building, she spotted a limousine with blacked-out windows and diplomatic flags parked in the no-parking zone by the front entrance. Her heartbeat kicked up several extra notches.

She recognised those flags.

So that solved the mystery of who had come to visit her: it had to be someone from the Narabian embassy in London. Panic and excitement tightened around her ribs like boa constrictors as she raced up the steps—her mind racing ahead of her.

A visit from the Narabian embassy could either be very good, or very bad.

Walmsley—who had taken over as Devereaux College’s dean after her father’s death—was going to kill her for going over his head and applying for official accreditation for her research into the recent history of the secretive, oil-rich desert state. But if she got it, even he wouldn’t be able to stand in her way. She’d finally be able to get more funding for her research. Her heart thudded against her chest wall in a one-two punch. She might even get permission to travel to the country.

Surely this had to be good news. The country’s ruler, Tariq Ali Nawari Khan, had died two months ago after a long illness and his son, Zane Ali Nawari Khan, had taken over the throne. A darling of the gossip columns as a baby—Zane Khan was half-American, the product of Tariq’s short-lived marriage to tragic Hollywood starlet Zelda Mayhew—he’d disappeared from the public eye, especially after his father had won custody of him in his teens. But there had been several credible stories the new Sheikh was planning to open the country up, and bring Narabia onto the world stage.

Which was why she’d made her application—because she was hoping the new regime would consider lifting the veil of secrecy. But what if she’d made a major mistake? What if this visit was actually very bad news? What if the diplomat was here to complain about her application? Walmsley could use it as an excuse to end her tenure.

She rushed down the corridor towards Walmsley’s office, breathing in the comforting scent of lemon polish and old wood.

The pulse of grief hit her hard as she took the stairs to her father’s old office. This place had been her whole life ever since she was a little girl, and her father had taken over as the new dean. But Henry Smith had been dead for two years now. And Walmsley had wanted her gone—as a reminder of the man whose shadow he’d lived in for fifteen years—for almost that long.

Buck up, Cat. It’s time. You can’t spend the rest of your life hidden behind these four walls.

Turning the corner to Walmsley’s office, she spotted two large men dressed in dark suits standing guard outside his door. Her heart rammed into her throat, the crows of doubt swooping into her stomach like dive-bombers.

Why had the Narabian embassy sent a security detail? Wasn’t it a little over the top? Maybe Walmsley’s reaction wasn’t the only thing she had to worry about?

She brushed her hair back from her face and retied the wayward curls to buy time. The snap of the elastic band was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. Both men stared at her as if she were a felon, instead of a twenty-four-year-old female professor with a double PhD in Middle Eastern studies. They looked ready to tackle her to the ground if she so much as sneezed.

She forced herself to breathe. In, out—that’s the spirit.

‘Excuse me,’ she murmured. ‘My name’s Dr Catherine Smith. Professor Walmsley is expecting me.’

One of the man mountains gave a brusque nod, then leaned round to shove open the door. ‘She is arrived,’ he announced in heavily accented English.

Cat entered the office, the hairs on her neck prickling alarmingly as Walmsley’s head snapped up.

‘Dr Smith, at last, where have you been?’ Walmsley said, his exasperated enquiry high-pitched and tense.

Cat jumped as the door slammed shut behind her. Her anxiety levels increased, the boa constrictors writhing in her belly. Why was the dean fidgeting like that with the papers on his desk? He looked nervous, and she’d never seen him nervous before.

‘I’m sorry, Professor,’ she said, trying to read her boss’s expression—but his face was cast into shadow by the pale wintry light coming through the sash window behind him. ‘I was in the library. I didn’t get your text until five minutes ago.’

‘We have an esteemed visitor, who is here to see you,’ he said. ‘You really shouldn’t have kept him waiting.’

Walmsley held out his arm and Cat swung round. The prickle of awareness went haywire. A man sat in the leather armchair at the back of Walmsley’s office.

His face was cast into shadow. But even seated he looked intimidatingly large, his shoulders impressively broad in an expertly tailored suit. He had his left leg crossed over his opposite knee, one tanned hand clasping his ankle. The expensive gold watch on his wrist glinted in the sunlight. The pose was indolent and assured and oddly predatory.

He unfolded his legs and leaned out of the shadows, and Cat’s wayward pulse skyrocketed into the stratosphere.

The few photographs she’d seen of Sheikh Zane Ali Nawari Khan didn’t do him justice. High slashing cheekbones, a blade-like nose and his ruthlessly cropped hair were offset by a pair of brutally blue eyes, the colour of his irises the same true turquoise his mother had once been famous for.

He had clearly inherited all the best genes from both sides of his bloodline—his features a stunning combination of his father’s striking Arabic bone structure and his mother’s almost ethereal Caucasian beauty. In truth, his features would almost be too perfect, but for the scar on his chin—and a bump in the bridge of his nose, which marred the perfect symmetry.

Cat’s lungs contracted.

‘Hello, Dr Smith,’ he said in a deep cultured voice, his English still tinged with the lazy cadence of America’s West Coast. He unfolded his long frame from the chair and walked towards her—and she had the weirdest sensation of being stalked, like a gazelle who’d accidentally wandered into the lion enclosure at London Zoo. She struggled to get her breathing back under control before she passed out at his Gucci-clad feet.

‘My name is Zane Khan,’ he said, stopping only a smidgen outside her personal space.

‘I know who you are, Your Highness,’ she said breathlessly, far too aware of her height disadvantage.

He spoke again in that same clipped, urbane tone. ‘I don’t use the title outside Narabia.’

Blood rushed to her face and flooded past her eardrums. Then a dimple appeared in his left cheek, and her lungs seized again.

Oh, for Pete’s sake, a dimple? Isn’t he devastating enough already?

‘I’m sorry, Your High... I mean, Zane.’ Heat charged to her hairline when his lips quirked.

Oh. My. God. Cat. You did not just call the ruler of Narabia by his first name.

‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I meant to say Mr Khan.’

She sucked in a fortifying breath and the refreshing scent of citrus soap, overlaid with the spicy hint of a clean cedarwood cologne, filled her nostrils. She shuffled back, and her bottom hit Walmsley’s desk.

He hadn’t moved any closer, but still she could feel that concentrated gaze on every inch of her exposed skin.

‘Are you here about my request for accreditation?’ she asked, feeling impossibly foolish.

Why on earth would he have come all this way, to see her, over something that could be sorted out by one of his minions in the Narabian embassy in London?

‘No, Dr Smith,’ he said. ‘I’m here to offer you a job.’

Zane had to resist the unprecedented urge to laugh when Catherine Smith’s hazel eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

She hadn’t expected that. Then again, he hadn’t expected her. The only reason he’d come in person was because he already had a business meeting in Cambridge today with a tech firm who would be helping to bring superfast internet access to Narabia. And because he’d been furious once he’d received the reports from his tech people that someone at Devereaux College had been doing research on Narabia without his express permission.

He hadn’t bothered to read the file they’d emailed to him about the female academic who had asked for accreditation. He’d simply assumed she would be frumpy and middle-aged.

The very last thing he’d expected was to be introduced to someone who couldn’t be much older than a high-school student, with eyes the colour of caramel candy. She looked like a tomboy, dressed in slim-fit jeans, a pair of biker boots and a shapeless sweater that nearly reached her knees. Her wild chestnut hair—barely contained by an elastic band—added to the impression of young, unconventional beauty. But it was her candy-coloured eyes that had really snagged his attention. Wide and slightly slanted, giving them a sleepy, just-out-of-bed quality, her eyes were striking, not least because they were so expressive, every one of her emotions clearly visible.

‘A job doing what?’ she said, her directness surprising him as she eased further back against her boss’s desk.

Looking past her, he directed his gaze at Walmsley. ‘Leave us,’ he said.

The middle-aged academic nodded and shuffled out of the room, well aware his department’s funding was at stake because of this woman’s research.

The woman’s eyes widened even more, and he could see the jump in her pulse rate above the neckline of her bulky sweater.

‘I require someone to write a detailed account of my country’s people, the history of its culture and customs to complete the process of introducing Narabia on the world stage. I understand you have considerable knowledge of the region?’

His PR people had suggested the hagiography. It was all part of the process of finally bringing Narabia out of the shadows and into the light. A process he’d embarked upon five years ago when his father had let go of his iron grip on the throne. It had taken Tariq Khan five years to die from the stroke that had left him a shadow of his former self, during which time Zane had managed to drag the country’s oil industry out of the dark ages, begin a series of infrastructure projects that would eventually bring electricity, water mains and even internet access to the country’s remote landscape. But there was still a very long way to go. And the last thing he needed was for any gossip to get out about his parents’ relationship and the difficult nature of his relationship with the man who had sired him. Because that would become the whole story.

He shrugged, the phantom pain searing his shoulder blades.

This woman’s work threatened to throw the book he had planned to commission—stressing the country’s adaptability and new modern outlook—into stark relief if she found out the sordid truth about how he had come to live in Narabia. But shutting her down wasn’t the right response. He had always been a firm believer in challenging problems head-on. ‘Never trust anyone’ had been one of his father’s favourite maxims—and one of the many harsh lessons Zane had learned to embrace wholeheartedly.

‘You want me to write a book on the kingdom?’ She seemed astonished. He wondered why.

‘Yes, it would mean accompanying me to Narabia. You would have three months to complete the project but I understand you’ve already spent over a year doing research on the kingdom?’ Research he needed to ensure hadn’t already uncovered information he wished to conceal.

She moistened her lips, and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Even though she appeared to wear no lipstick, he became momentarily fixated by the plump bow at the top, glistening in the half-light. The surge of lust was surprising. The women he slept with were usually a great deal more sophisticated than this woman.

‘I’m sorry. I... I can’t accept.’

He dragged his gaze away from her month, annoyed he’d become fixated on it. And annoyed more by her response to his proposal. ‘I assure you the fee is a lucrative one,’ he said.

‘I don’t doubt that,’ she said, although he suspected she had no idea how lucrative the fee he would propose actually was, certainly more than an academic could make in a decade, let alone three months. ‘But I couldn’t possibly write a comprehensive account in that time. I’ve only done preliminary research so far. And I’ve never written something of that magnitude. Are you sure you don’t want a journalist instead?’

No way was he inviting a journalist to pry into his past. That sort of uncontrolled intrusion into his affairs was precisely what this carefully vetted account was supposed to avoid.

Heat pulsed in his groin at her surprising show of defiance. He ruthlessly ignored it. However much he might want to devour that cupid’s bow mouth, he was not in the habit of seducing subordinates—especially not ones who looked about eighteen years old.

‘How old are you, Dr Smith?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

She stiffened and he suspected he’d insulted her with the question. She must be used to people questioning her credentials, which was hardly surprising—she didn’t look old enough to be in college, let alone to hold two PhDs.

‘I’m twenty-four.’

He nodded, relieved. She was young and probably sheltered if she’d managed to gain that much education so quickly, but not that young.

‘Then you are still at the start of your career. This is an opportunity for you to make a name for yourself outside the—’ his gaze drifted over the worn leather textbooks, the musty academic tomes, all dead history to his way of thinking ‘—world of academia. You wanted official accreditation for your research into Narabia...’ Accreditation he would give her once he had final say on the content of her work. ‘This is the only way you will get it.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s calling you a coward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course,’ he answered without hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not good enough,’ he said.

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

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

Half a million pounds!

‘I... That’s very generous.’

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

We...? Tonight...? What...?

‘I...’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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