Читать книгу Captured By A Sheikh - Jacqueline Diamond, Lori Copeland, Jacqueline Diamond - Страница 11

October

Bahrim City, Alqedar, in southern Arabia

The surrogate mother was gone. And, with her, the baby due to be born in a few weeks.

Furious on hearing the news, Sheikh Sharif Al-Khalil clenched his fists. “The police in California—will they not help?”

Zahad Adran, the sheikh’s cousin, aide and chief of security at the palace, spread his hands in frustration. “They have found no signs of foul play, so there is no criminal investigation.”

The sheikh stared at his aide over the papers stacked on his broad desk, the contracts that would bring money for hospitals and schools. “I will fly to America at once. I must find my son!”

Beneath his red-and-white-checked kaffiyeh, the traditional headdress of his country, Zahad’s scarred face was wise beyond his years. “Cousin, let me deal with this situation. Our people need you, now more than ever.”

“The longer we wait, the harder it will be to find her!” Sharif could scarcely think beyond the need to retrieve the woman who would bear his child.

“If you approve, I will fly to California tomorrow and investigate,” Zahad said. “The director of the surrogacy clinic, Noreen Wheaton, has promised to cooperate. However, we must remember that the mother has many rights under American law.”

Angrily, the sheikh turned away. Mirrored in the glass of an arched window, his eyes glittered with rage. His sharp-featured face, hardened by warfare, was softened only slightly by a short beard and mustache, and by the white, banded headcloth that fell across the shoulders of his business suit.

Nine years ago, while Sharif was away fighting to free their country from a dictator, his wife, Yona, had died in childbirth. He would not risk the life of another woman he loved, but he had done his best to produce an heir.

Beyond the window sprawled Bahrim City, the second largest community in the Arabian nation of Alqedar. Its people depended on him. And he, apparently, had depended on the wrong woman. “She has sold herself already. Perhaps she now intends to raise the price.”

“If we must bribe the girl, so be it,” Zahad said. “Let us hope it is only money she wants, and not custody.”

Sharif swung back to face his cousin. Although he had read of custody battles when he was a college student in New York, this personal betrayal outraged him. “She signed a contract and accepted one hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”

“Of which the clinic has received only half pending the child’s birth,” Zahad reminded him. “In any case, my friend, we cannot ride in like warriors and take what is ours. Please allow me to handle this matter in your stead.”

Reluctantly, Sharif yielded. “Very well,” he said. “You will advise me the moment you learn of her whereabouts. I’ll join you there if this matter cannot be quickly resolved.”

Zahad bowed, although no such formalities were necessary between the two men. “Of course,” he said, and retreated.

Sharif reminded himself that his cousin was a capable man. It was, after all, Zahad who had found the Crestline View Clinic in the first place.

Southern California was one of the world’s few locations that offered high-quality medical facilities, lax laws regarding surrogate parenting, and a population of liberated young women. Even so, it had taken Mrs. Wheaton many tries to find a surrogate who met the sheikh’s high standards.

From the top desk drawer, he withdrew a photograph. It was the woman he knew as H. J. Rivers.

Her face riveted him, the hazel eyes strikingly intelligent within a heart-shaped face. She had dramatic dark-red hair and a gentle mouth that reminded him of Yona.

The accompanying description was spare. “Age twenty-five, never married, Ms. Rivers works as a manicurist at a beauty salon and lives with her older sister. She has sung professionally.

“She wishes to help Your Excellency secure your people’s future, and plans to use the money to make a demonstration recording to further her singing career.”

Mrs. Wheaton’s one qualm was that H. J. Rivers had never previously given birth. Sharif, however, preferred that his son have a virtuous mother. A woman who lived an apparently chaste life, sharing quarters with her sister, suited him well.

Now he wondered whether anything had been omitted or misrepresented. Above all, why had this beautiful woman disappeared with his soon-to-beborn son?

From the desk, he drew the other photograph, the one he had received four months ago. A blurry ultrasound image formed the shape of a baby boy, a son who would enrich his father’s life, and those of their people.

Sharif had fallen in love with this child from the moment he saw the picture. How could he bear to lose him?

Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, he threw open the window. Outside the palace, October sunshine baked mud-brick houses, and a breeze carried the aromas of coffee, spices and frankincense from an open-air marketplace. It was a poor city, although rich in tradition.

The entire Arabian nation of Alqedar had its share of economic woes, but it was the fifty-thousand residents of Bahrim City and its environs who concerned Sharif, because they fell under his family’s protection. For the first time, prosperity lay within reach.

The region’s twisted, pale Jubah trees yielded a silklike fiber prized for its softness and durability. Recently, the fiber had been synthesized under Sharif’s patronage.

He owned the patent jointly with chemist Hakem “Harry” Haroun, who was married to Sharif’s cousin Amy. Soon large-scale production of Jubah cloth would fund badly needed public works. Then no man, child, or woman of Bahrim would die, as Yona had, for lack of a modern hospital.

All was not secure, however. Other regional leaders eyed the project enviously. Also, Sharif had received death threats for his role in overthrowing the late dictator, Maimun.

The future of Bahrim could not rest on his shoulders alone. He needed an heir. The love he felt for his unborn son had been an unexpected bonus.

The creak of hinges snapped Sharif to attention. Pivoting, he reached for his gun.

“Jumpy as a cat, aren’t you?” His aunt Selima glided into the room. In her late sixties, she had a strong, watchful face and black hair distinguished by a shock of silver fanning from a widow’s peak. A gold-embroidered crimson dress skimmed her ample figure.

“Has Zahad told you what happened?” he asked, withdrawing his hand from within his jacket.

“Yes, but we must hope for the best.” His aunt whisked aside piles of paper to clear a space on his desktop. “You requested my instruction and you shall have it.”

“Aunt Selima, this is no time for such matters!”

Ignoring his frown, she unrolled a pad and, from her woven shoulder bag, produced a cherubically naked plastic doll. “Well?” she demanded, holding out a thick, folded cloth. “You won’t learn anything standing over there!”

There was no point in fighting the inevitable. With a rueful smile, the sheikh went to take his first lesson in diapering.