Читать книгу Medical Romance August 2016 Books 1-6 - Sue MacKay, Amalie Berlin - Страница 34

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?”