Читать книгу Medical Romance August 2016 Books 1-6 - Sue MacKay, Amalie Berlin - Страница 32
ОглавлениеTHE 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.
