The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs 3)

Nassir shook his head. “You always had more courage than sense.”

Malid smiled. “No. I have a secret weapon.” Adilan frowned, Nassir grinned, and the two men strode out, heading for the elevators. They passed Nigella on the way, and Malid saw Nassir give her a wink.

She came over to Malid’s side. “That’s got to be another Adjalane—your father must have made the three of you out of the same mold.”

“I think my mother had something to do with it.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, and told her the doctor’s news.

She let out a breath and smiled. “I’ll bet your mother’s going to love having to keep your daddy resting.”

“No, that will be the job of the staff, and Hassan has been managing my father for decades. Hassan will find ways to ensure my father’s rest, without seeming to do anything. There will simply be a lack of phone calls, few visitors will stay to tire my father, and papers will not be on my father’s desk when he demands them.”

Her eyes widened. “I need to get my daddy a Hassan. Can we go see Nimr? Should I wait here?”

He took her hand and stepped from the room, and saw Michelle walking into the hospital. She looked much as he remembered—a very straight nose, wide-spaced blue eyes, and the olive complexion of a woman from his own country. Her almost black hair was worn straight, and she had on a light-colored business suit, with a short hem. Malid was quite certain Michelle would never adapt fully to the customs of his country. Disapproval for her dress rose in him, but he bit it back.

Michelle saw him, glanced away and back. She missed one step and the color drained from her face.

Frowning, Malid pulled Nigella with him and headed for Michelle—Nigella would have to help him make this right. But Nigella pulled from her hand away from his and stepped forward, one hand offered. “You must be Michelle. Adilan is upstairs. I’m Nigella Michaels. I have to say I saw your wedding photos in the newspapers when I was doing my homework for the deal I was putting together for Opell Oil and the Adjalanes, but the photos don’t do you justice.”

Michelle blinked, and Malid had to hide a smile—he had never seen her at a loss for words like this. “Why…thank you.” She sounded uncertain and she turned to Malid, her eyes sparking with a challenge and her back stiff. “I’m surprised your back. Come to make trouble?”

Malid smiled. “I’ve already apologized to Adilan, and I offer you my regrets as well. I—” He glanced at Nigella, saw she’d lifted her eyebrows as if she knew what he should say and was waiting. Ah, but this woman would tie him in knots. He grinned. He would not mind so long as he, too, was allowed to play with knots when they were alone. He turned back to Michelle. “I will understand if you are unable to forgive me.”

She tipped her head to one side, her eyes narrowed, and then Michelle lifted a fist and punched his arm. It hurt—it actually hurt. Rubbing the spot, he stared at her. She grinned. “I’ve been wanting to do that for far too long. And Adilan’s been giving me boxing lessons. You can be the worst jerk…but Adilan…I think he’s missed you, you bastard.”

Malid heard a choked laugh. He glanced at Nigella, saw her covering her mouth. He looked at Michelle and gave a small bow. “Do we call it even now?”

Michelle shook her head. “Brother, I’m just getting started. But I suppose a hospital is a place for a truce.”

With a wave, he allowed her to head into the elevator first—he didn’t want that woman at his back.

Nimr had been settled into a private room, but the staff wanted only one visitor at a time. Malid found himself in a private waiting room, not far from his father. Nigella stood close to him, and he realized He couldn’t have done this without her. But how could he tell her that—they had known each other such a short time.

His mother came out of Nimr’s room looking tired and drawn. Adilan swapped a look with his wife, and Michelle offered to take their mother to get some tea. That was a good idea. Nigella leaned close to Malid and said, “He’s your father. You can’t fool me, you know. You care about him but you just don’t know how to show it.”

Malid slanted a look at her. “How do you know that?”

“You want me to list the reasons? There’s the fact that you didn’t leave the region after he banished you.”

“Al-Sarid is my home. I always planned on finding a way back.”

“And you broke your own rule—you went out in a sandstorm in order to get your father the help he needed.”

He shook his head. “Anyone would have done the same.”

Nigella smiled. “Really? But then we come to your hand.”

“What does my hand have to do with it?” he asked.

She smiled and put a hand on his arm. “I’ve seen the tremors in your fingers—you were worried for him. Afraid he would die. I’ve been through this with Daddy—he had a stroke scare that had me climbing the walls.” She nodded to Nimr’s room. “Go on. I’ll wait here with your brothers.”

He squeezed her hand and headed into his father’s room.

Nimr lay on his bed, his eyes closed, wires hooked up to monitors and a tube to give him oxygen attached to his nose. Shifting on his feet, Malid wondered what he should do—what should he say. He had no idea, so he simply thought of Nigella and how she had stayed close to him, even holding his hand. He had never seen the man look so…so quiet.

Malid sat down next to the bed on a hard chair and clasped his father’s hand between his own.

Nimr’s eyes fluttered and opened slightly. He parted his lips and his voice came out raspy and weak. “Never go out in a sandstorm. Did I not teach you better?”