The Sheikh's Secret Love Child (The Sheikh's Baby Surprise 2)

ONE

Rosie closed her eyes as the staff door swung shut behind her, trying to slow her breathing. She’d already changed out of her scrubs, hoping to slide back into reality after countless hours on the obstetrics floor.

She couldn’t quite shake the feeling of that one woman’s hand, squeezing her fingers throughout the duration of her labor. Rosie knew the circulation would come back eventually—she’d been through it enough times before. But God, lately it seemed that every shift was more stressful than the last. And her mind, more than her fingers, was feeling the strain.

She stuck her headphones in, opting for an album her father had played for her countless times before he died, one that still calmed her. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young hummed into her ears, and she walked quickly, compiling a list in her head of all the things she needed to do once she returned home. For one, she needed to take a long, hot shower to scrub off the smell of hospital from her skin.

Downtown Seattle was mad at rush hour: people revving home from work—angry tech guys who made too much money honking their horns while shoving their glasses up their noses. She heard an ambulance roaring toward the hospital and spun her eyes away, not wanting to think about that world another moment longer. She gave the hospital enough of her time.

Rosie had lived in the city long enough—since college, actually, when she’d moved from rural Washington—to understand the wild dynamic of downtown (the very reason why she didn’t live there, although she probably couldn’t afford it anyway).

A brief moment of anxiety moved her feet more quickly. She was nearing the bus stop across the street—the final freedom. Once she hopped on the bus, which would take her back to the trendy district of Capitol Hill, she could close her eyes and truly sink into the music. She took a quick glance left, then right, and shoved out into the street in a diagonal jaywalk.

And that’s when it happened.

A bright red Lamborghini, darting fast through the streets, was headed straight toward the slim, beautiful redhead as she swept across the street, completely unaware that she was walking into traffic.

She curled her hair back, bringing her fingers through it, as the album switched to track three. Would she have chicken for dinner, she wondered. She supposed she could order pizza. God, the single life, she thought. Her last boyfriend had moved to LA two years before, and her nights had since devolved to finding solace in carbohydrates and cheese, before passing out on the sofa.

All at once, the car, with its sleek, expensive finish, swerved left to avoid her, darting left, then right. A squeal of tires brought Rosie’s eyes to the unfolding action just milliseconds before the gorgeous vehicle crashed headlong into a telephone pole, shaking the pole to its core.

Rosie let out a scream, placing her hand over her mouth and feeling that familiar panic, the one she so often had living in her gut on the obstetrics floor, flood through her.

The car scrunched almost immediately, bringing the driver’s body close to the telephone pole and spewing steam over the grass. Already, cars were stopping all around, their drivers pushing from their doors and gazing wide-eyed at the destruction. Each of them looked in mourning over the vehicle before turning their eyes toward Rosie, whose statue-like figure had begun to emit tiny tears.

“Oh my God,” she finally breathed.

She turned off her music and raced across the street, making sure to look both ways. She was always exhausted after her shifts at the hospital, but it had never led her to cause anyone else harm before.

The steam was piling high as she reached the Lamborghini—a car, she reasoned, that must have cost more than anything she’d ever purchased in her life—even more than all of those things put together. The driver was leaning forward, coughing.

Rosie thrust her hand over the handle and opened the door, gazing wide-eyed at the man. “Are you all right?” she said, breathless.

The man waved his hand, as if to prove that he could still move it. He turned his face toward her, then, and looked her in the eye—making her stomach flip in the process.

“Ah, it’s you,” he said lightly.

Something about the way he said it stirred something in Rosie immediately. She frowned, skeptical, and assessed him. The man before her looked Middle-Eastern, perhaps—and deeply handsome, with high cheek bones and a deep, gorgeous skin tone that brought out his dark brown, almost black eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Rosie blurted out, shaking her head. “I wasn’t paying attention, and I just—”

“Walked across the street without looking?” the man finished, smiling slightly. His teeth were a supreme white, and his smile was playful, coaxing.

“I guess so,” Rosie said, blushing. “Are you okay?”

The man coughed again. “I just choked a bit on my fear of my impending doom.” He looked around, at the steam still streaming from the engine, and the glass that had dusted from the passenger window. “But I seem unscathed, don’t I? More or less?” He winked at her.

As he casually exited the squashed vehicle, Rosie watched him carefully. He was putting on a brave face for her, he had to be. If she’d been involved in this kind of crash—especially one involving so much money—she’d have been on the ground, bawling her eyes out. But then again, her mother had always said she was a bit dramatic.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Rosie said, taking his arm and guiding him from the wreck. “I’m such an idiot. My mind was in a million other places. I just left the hospital, you see… I’ve just worked twelve hours straight, and all I wanted to do was get home.” She felt small tears rally once more in her eyes, but blinked them away. She couldn’t cry in front of the man she’d nearly killed. She felt she really didn’t have the right.

The man gestured toward the car. “You know, it was just the adrenaline rush I needed, actually. It’s been kind of a boring day.”

“Boring?” Rosie shook her head, incredulous. In spite of herself, she found herself grinning at his confidence.

“Well, it’s not every day you destroy something so gorgeous,” he grinned.

Rosie bowed her head, hitting herself in the temple. How could she be so stupid? “Will… will the repairs be very costly, do you think?” she asked, feeling the creak in her voice. Was she really going to offer to pay for this? “I can come up with some kind of payment structure—something…” She trailed off, knowing she sounded pathetic, knowing there was no way she would be able to make any significant contribution to paying for the repairs.

The man flashed her that devilish grin once more, and her stomach stirred. Behind him, the car let out another creak and a puff of smoke burst fr

om the front.

Rosie stifled a smile at the strange picture: at this gorgeous man, at the mess of his beautiful car, at the very fact that she, in her stupidity, had caused this. God, she was a klutz.

He stuck out his hand, then, and she shook it, shaking slightly. “I’m Hakan, by the way. And, you know, it’s really no problem. I was thinking about trading it in for a newer model, anyway.”

Rosie wasn’t sure what to say. She gaped at him for a moment before remembering she needed to tell him her name, as well. “It’s Rosie,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “Rosie Lund. And I can’t imagine a better model than this.”

He slammed the car door closed and gazed at it, his hands resting on his waist. “Think we should call a tow truck?” he said, with the same nonchalance he might use if asking her where she wanted to eat dinner.