The Sheikh's Undoing

For one stupid moment she was about to say I’m all he’s got. Until she realised that the shock of hearing he was injured must have temporarily unhinged her mind. Why, Tariq had a whole stable of women he could call upon in an instant. Women who were far closer to him than Isobel had ever been or ever would be.

‘I’m the person he rang just over an hour ago,’ she said, her voice full of appeal. ‘It was … it was me he turned to.’

The nurse looked at her steadily, and then seemed to take pity on her.

‘He has a concussion,’ she said quietly, and then shook her head as if in answer to the silent question in Isobel’s eyes. ‘His CT scan shows no sign of haemorrhaging, but we’re putting him under observation just to be sure.’

No sign of haemorrhaging. A breath of relief shuddered from Isobel’s lips, and for a moment she had to lean on the nurses’ station for support. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Can I see him? Please? Would that be okay? Just for a moment.’

There was a moment’s assessment, and then the nurse nodded. ‘Well, as long as it is a moment. A familiar face is often reassuring. But you’re not to excite him—do you understand?’

Isobel gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, there’s no danger of that happening,’ she answered—because Tariq thought she was about as exciting as watching paint dry.

He’d often described her as the most practical and sensible woman he knew—citing those as the reasons he employed her. Once, she’d even overheard him saying that it was a relief to find a woman under thirty who wasn’t a distraction, and although it had hurt at the time, she could live with it. She’d always known her place in his life and that wasn’t about to change now. Her job was to soothe his ruffled feathers, not to excite him. There were plenty of other contenders for that category.

She followed the rhythmical squishing of the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes into a side-room at the far end of the unit, and the unbelievable sight that confronted her there made her heart skip a painful beat.

Shrouded in the bleached cotton of a single sheet lay the prone figure of her boss. He looked too long and too broad for the narrow hospital bed, and he was lying perfectly still. The stark white bedlinen threw his darkly golden colouring into relief—and even from here she could see the dark red stain of blood which had matted his thick black hair.

Waves of dizziness washed over her at the sight of the seemingly indestructible Tariq looking so stricken, and Isobel had to quash a stupid instinct to run over to his side and touch her fingers to his cheek. But the nurse had warned her not to excite him, and so she mustered up her usual level-headed attitude and walked quietly towards him.

His eyes were closed—two ebony feathered arcs of lashes were lying against a face which she could see was unusually blanched, despite the natural darkness of his olive skin.

She swallowed down the acid taste of fear. She had seen Tariq in many different guises during the five eventful years she’d been working for him. She’d seen him looking sharp and urbanely suited as he dominated the boardroom during the meetings which filled his life. She’d seen him hollow-eyed from lack of sleep when he’d spent most of the night gambling and had come straight into the office brandishing a thick wad of notes and a careless smile.

Once she’d started remembering Isobel couldn’t stop. Other images crowded into her mind. Tariq in jodhpurs as he played polo with such breathtaking flair, and the faint sheen of sweat that made his muddy jodhpurs stick to his powerful thighs. Tariq in jeans and a T-shirt when he was dressed down and casual. Or looking like a movie idol in a sharply tailored tuxedo before he went out to dinner. She’d even seen him in the flowing white robes and headdress of his homeland, when he was leaving on one of his rare visits to the oil-rich kingdom of Khayarzah—where his brother Zahid was King.

But she had never seen her powerful boss looking so defenceless before, and something inside her softened and melted. At that moment she felt almost tender towards him—as if she’d like to cradle him in her arms and comfort him. Poor, vulnerable Tariq she thought bleakly.

Until the reality of the situation came slamming home to her and she forced herself to confront it. Tariq was looking vulnerable because right at this moment he was. Very vulnerable. Lying injured on a hospital bed. Beneath the wool of her sweater she could feel the crash of her heart—and she had to fight back a feeling of panic, and nausea.

‘Tariq,’ she breathed softly. ‘Oh, Tariq.’

Tariq screwed up his eyes. Through the mists of hammering pain he was aware of something familiar and yet curiously different about the woman who was speaking to him. It was a voice he knew well. A voice which exemplified the small area of calm which lay at the centre of his crazy life. It was … Izzy’s voice, he realised—but not as he’d ever heard it before. Normally it was crisp and matter-of-fact, sometimes cool and disapproving, but he’d never heard it all soft and trembling before.

His eyes opened, surprising a look of such darkened fear in her gaze that he was momentarily taken aback. He studied the soft quiver of her lips and felt the tiptoeing of something unfamiliar on his skin. Was that really Izzy?

‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to die,’ he drawled. And then, despite the terrible aching at his temples, he allowed just the right pause for maximum effect before directing a mocking question at the woman in uniform who was standing beside his bed, her fingertips counting the hammering of his pulse. ‘Am I, Nurse?’

Inexplicably, Isobel felt angry at Tariq for being as arrogant as only he knew how. He could have killed himself, and all he could do was flirt with the damned nurse! Why had she wasted even a second being sentimental about him when she should have realised that he was as indestructible as a rock? And with about as much emotion

as a rock, too! She wanted to tell him not to dare be so flippant—but, recognising that might fall into the category of exciting him, she bit back the words.

‘What happened?’ she questioned, still having to fight the stupid desire to touch him.

Bunching her wistful fingers into a tight fist by her side, she stared down at the hawkish lines of his autocratic face.

‘You may not be the slowest driver in the world, but you’re usually careful,’ she said. And then seeing the nurse glare at her, Isobel remembered that she was supposed to be calming him, not quizzing him. ‘No, don’t bother answering that,’ she added hastily. ‘In fact, don’t even think about it. Just lie there—and rest.’

Black brows were elevated in disbelief. ‘You aren’t usually quite so agreeable,’ he observed caustically.

‘Well, these aren’t usual circumstances, are they?’

Isobel gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile—but it wasn’t easy to keep the panic at bay. Not when all she wanted to do was take him in her arms and tell him that everything was going to be all right. To rest his cheek against the mad racing of her heart and lace her fingers through the inky silk of his hair and stroke it. What on earth was the matter with her?

‘You’ve just got to lie there quietly and let the nurses take care of you and check that you’re in one p-piece.’

That unfamiliar tremble in her voice was back, and Tariq’s eyes narrowed as her face swam in and out of focus. Funny. He couldn’t really remember looking at Izzy’s face before. Or maybe he had—just not like this. In the normal progression of a day you never really stared at a woman for a long time. Not unless you were planning to seduce her.