The Sheikh's Undoing

‘Izzy?’

Tell him.

But the words wouldn’t come—they stayed stubbornly stuck at the back of her throat and she swallowed them down again. I’ll tell him when I know for sure, she thought. When he gets back.

‘I’m fine, Tariq. Honestly. I just feel a little off-colour, that’s all. Must have been something I ate. And now, if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’d better see about your jet. And then I’ll ring through to Fiona and have her sit in on our meeting.’

She waited until she’d spoken to the airfield, and then calmed an excited Fiona’s nerves, telling her that of course she could cope with running Tariq’s office.

And it was only then that Isobel slipped along to the thankfully empty sanctuary of the bathroom, where she was violently sick.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IT WAS confirmed.

The blue line couldn’t be denied any longer—and neither could the test Isobel had done the day before, or the day before that. Because all the tests in the world would only verify what she had known all along. And all the wishing in the world wouldn’t change that fact.

She was pregnant with Prince Tariq al Hakam’s baby. The man who had told her in no uncertain terms that he had no desire to have a baby was going to be a father.

Feeling caged and restless, she stared out of the window at the red bus which was lumbering down the road below. It was stuffy and hot in her tiny flat, but she felt too tired to face walking to the nearest park. She’d been feeling tired a lot recently …

Little beads of sweat ran in rivulets down her back, despite the thin cotton dress and the windows she’d opened onto the airless day. Somehow summer had arrived without her really

noticing—but maybe that wasn’t so surprising. In the two weeks since Tariq had flown out to Khayarzah she certainly hadn’t been focussing on the weather.

Her thoughts had been full of the man whose seed was growing inside her—and she had a strange feeling of emptiness at being away from work. For once she couldn’t even face going down to the cottage, where the memories of Tariq would have been just too vivid.

She’d always thought there was something slightly pathetic about people who haunted the office while they were supposed to be on holiday, and so she hadn’t rung in to work either. Fiona would contact her soon enough if she needed her help, and so far she hadn’t.

Which made Isobel feel even emptier than she already did. As if she had made herself out to be this fabulous, indispensable addition to the Al Hakam empire when the reality was that she could quite easily be replaced.

And she had heard nothing from Tariq. Not even an e-mail or text to tell her he was alive and well in Khayarzah. If anything proved that it was all over between them, it was the terrifying silence which had mushroomed since his departure.

There had been times when she’d been tempted to pick up the phone, telling herself that she had a perfect right to speak to him. Wasn’t he still her boss, even if he was no longer her lover? But she wasn’t a good enough actress for that. How could she possibly have a breezy conversation with him, as if nothing was happening, when inside her body their combined cells were multiplying at a frightening speed?

And what would she say? Would she be reduced to asking him whether it was really over between them—and hearing an even bigger silence echoing down the line?

No. She was going to have to tell him face to face. She knew that. And soon. But how did you break the news that he was going to be a father to a man who had expressly told you he didn’t want children? And not just any father—because this wasn’t just any baby. It was a royal baby, with royal blood coursing through its tiny veins—and that would have all kinds of added complications. She knew enough history to realise that the offspring of ruling families were always especially protected because royal succession was never certain. Wouldn’t that make Tariq feel even more trapped into a life he had often bitterly complained about?

But that’s only if he accepts responsibility for the child, taunted a voice inside her head. He might do the modern-day equivalent of what your own father did and walk away from his son or daughter.

Dunking a camomile teabag in a mug of boiling water, she heard the ring of her doorbell and wondered who it might be. The post, perhaps? Or some sort of delivery? Because nobody just dropped by in London on a weekday lunchtime. It could be a lonely city, she realised with a suddenly sinking heart—and this little flat was certainly no place to bring up a baby.

A baby.

The thought of what lay ahead terrified her, and she was so distracted that she’d almost forgotten about the doorbell when it rang again—more urgently this time. Her thin cotton dress was clinging to her warm thighs as she walked to the door, and she was so preoccupied that she didn’t bother to check the spyhole. When she opened the door, the last person she expected to see on her step was Tariq.

She gave a jolt of genuine surprise, her tiredness evaporating as she feasted her eyes on him. She had thought of little else but him since he’d been gone, but the reality of seeing him again was a savage shock to the system. His physical presence dominated his surroundings just as it always did, even if the heavily hooded ebony eyes were watchful and his mouth more unsmiling than she’d ever seen it. He was wearing a shirt—unbuttoned at the neck—with a pair of faded jeans. He looked cool against the day, and the casual attire made him look gloriously touchable—the irony of that did not escape her.

‘Tariq,’ she said breathlessly, aware of the thunder of her heart. ‘This is a … surprise.’

He nodded. A surprise for him, too, if he was being honest. He hadn’t intended to come and see her, and yet he’d found himself ordering his driver to bring him to this unfamiliar part of London.

He’d spent a brutal two weeks chasing around Khayarzah looking for his damned cousin, and the office had felt strangely empty when he had returned to find that Izzy was still away. Not that there was anything wrong with Fiona, her replacement. She was a sweet girl, and very eager to please. But she wasn’t Izzy. His mouth hardened.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course you can.’