Читать книгу The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum - Meredith Webber, Meredith Webber - Страница 8

SHE was sleeping soundly when he knocked quietly and entered the cabin some hours later. Her lustrous hair was loose, spread across the pillow, a rich, red-brown—more red, he felt, but a deep, almost magenta red.

Beautiful against the white of the pillow and the rich cream of her skin, her hair was shiny, silky—his fingers tingled with a desire to feel the texture.

He moved into the cabin, slightly embarrassed at having to invade her privacy, and more than a little embarrassed by his thoughts. But the pilot had warned they were approaching turbulence, and Khalifa didn’t want her thrown out of the bed. It was fitted with what in a chair would be called seat belts, simple bands that stretched across the bed to restrain a sleeping passenger.

Could he strap her in without disturbing her?

Was it even right to be doing this?

He wondered if he should wake her and let her do it herself, but she seemed so deeply asleep, and the little lines of worry he’d sometimes noticed on her face were smoothed away, the creamy skin mesmerising against the dark, rich swathe of hair.

No, he certainly shouldn’t be looking at her as he strapped her in! He found the far side restraint and drew it across the bed and over her body, curled on its side, the bulge of her pregnancy resting on the mattress, one leg drawn up to balance her weight.

He picked up the other end of the strap, and clicked the belt shut, then tightened it, just slightly, so it would hold her firmly if the plane dropped suddenly, but not put pressure on her belly.

Even under the sheet he could make out the shape of her, but his eyes were drawn to her face, vulnerable somehow without the dark-framed glasses, an attractive face, full of strength and determination, though he’d seen it soften when she’d spoken of the baby, Alexandra.

But not when she mentioned her own pregnancy.

He had to leave.

Heaven forbid she woke and found him staring at her.

Yet his feet seemed rooted to the floor, his eyes feasting on the woman, not lasciviously at all, just puzzled that she remained such a mystery to him.

Puzzled that he was puzzled, for of course she was a mystery to him—he barely knew her.

And probably never would.

Looking at her isn’t going to help you, he told himself, and after checking the cabin was free of loose objects that could fly about in turbulence, he did leave the room, but reluctantly.

Returning to his seat, he began to wonder if he’d made a big mistake, taking this woman to his homeland.

But why?

Having been educated in the West, he accepted equality in all things between men and women. A different equality existed in his own land, but never, in the history of the tribe, had women been seen as inferior for they were the carriers of history, the heart of the family, the heart of the tribe, so it wasn’t the fact that she was a woman …

Except that it was!

Not only was she a woman but she was a woman who, for some totally perverse reason, he found attractive.

Extremely attractive.

Physically attractive.

Could he put it down to prolonged celibacy after Zara’s death? Prolonged celibacy brought on by guilt that he’d not been there for her—not been closer to her—close enough to realise his own wife had been in trouble with her pregnancy …

Memories of the time made him wince and put the woman on the bed right out of his mind. Having failed one pregnant woman, he had no intention of getting involved with another one. She was an employee like any other, and he could treat her as such. Right now he had a mountain of work to get through, business matters that he’d set aside while he was in Australia.

Quickly absorbed in the details of a new university for Najme, in the number of departments the fledgling institution would have and the balance of staffing, he was surprised to find five hours had passed. The turbulence was also behind them, although when he shifted in his seat, wondering what movement had distracted him, a different turbulence made its presence felt.

Internal turbulence.

Liz Jones was standing in the doorway of the cabin, dark, red-brown hair tousled around her face, her eyes unfocussed as she cleaned her glasses with a tissue.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said, stepping cautiously forward, ‘but I need my bag to have a wash and fix my hair.’

‘You might be more comfortable if you leave it down for the rest of the flight,’ Khalifa heard himself say, although he knew he wasn’t thinking of her comfort but of the glory of that shining tumble of hair.

I might be more comfortable if I’d never stepped onto this plane, never met this man, let alone agreed to travel to his country, Liz thought, but, contrarily enough, excitement was stirring in her. Refreshed by the sleep, all the doubts and questions left behind, she was now looking forward to whatever adventure this strange new country would offer her.

Once she was off the plane, that was.

Once she was away from the man who was having such a strange effect on her body.