Sheikh Without a Heart

A blanket? A bundle?

Karim’s breath caught.

It was a child. An infant—and it reminded him of someone. Someone from long, long ago.

“You’d think a man would want to do right for his very own son and his mama, wouldn’t you?” Mrs. Grey said to Karim.

Rachel Donnelly, who had shown no emotion at all at the news of Rami’s death, made a little sound. Karim tore his eyes from the baby and looked at her.

She was trembling.

Carefully, he reached for the child. Thanked the two women. Said something polite. Closed the door.

Stared down at the baby in his arms.

And saw perfectly miniaturized replicas of his brother’s eyes. His brother’s nose.

And Rachel Donnelly’s mouth.

CHAPTER THREE

THE world stood still.

Such a trite phrase, Karim knew, but it took a conscious effort to draw air into his lungs.

What he was thinking was impossible.

This child had nothing to do with his brother.

Eye color. The shape of a nose. So what? There were only so many shades of blue in the world and only so many kinds of noses.

He took a deep breath.

Okay.

He’d been at this too long. That was the problem. He had certain routines. Rami had teased him unmercifully about how boring his life must be, but a routine was what kept a man grounded.

Up at six, half an hour in his private gym, shower, dress, coffee and toast at seven, at his desk by eight.

He’d been away from that schedule for too long, flying almost non-stop from city to city, seeing all the unpleasant details of his brother’s life unfold.

It was having an effect.

If Rami had fathered a child, he’d have known.

They were brothers. Out of touch, but surely a man would not keep something like that to himself …

“Blaa,” the baby said, “blaa-blaa-blaa.”