Karim cursed under his breath.
He was here to deal with a crying baby. Nothing more, nothing less. That his thoughts were wandering was proof that he had to get some sleep if he was going to be able to function well enough tomorrow—actually, today—and put this mess behind him.
He strode back through the sitting room, went straight to the second door.
It, too, was ajar. He stepped inside.
Yes, this was the boy’s room. There was the crib. Boxes of baby stuff. The soft illumination of a lamp—what was that, anyway?
A lamp shaped like a carousel.
The work of his assistant?
He’d have to remember to thank her for her creativity, Karim thought wryly …
And then he saw Rachel.
She was asleep in a big wing chair, the baby in her arms. Her hair was loose, falling like a glossy rain over the shoulders of a high-necked white cotton nightgown long enough to cover her feet, which were tucked up under her.
Karim’s throat constricted.
He had seen this woman in glitter. In denim. He had seen her naked. She had been beautiful each time, but this, the way she sat now, so unselfconsciously lovely, so perfect and vulnerable, was almost enough to stop his heart.
Whatever the reason she’d been with Rami it didn’t matter.
What did matter was that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any other woman.
He drew a long, shuddering breath.
But wanting was not the same as having. And he could not have her.
It would only complicate something that was already far too complicated. He had a responsibility. A duty. To his father, his people, his dead brother’s memory.
The boy.
That was what this was all about.
His mother had been focused on herself. So had Rami. But he was not like that. He never would be. He—
“Babababa.”
The baby was awake, looking at him through his brother’s long-lashed blue eyes. Karim shook his head and put his finger to his lips.
“Shh.”
Wrong comment. The child’s mouth trembled. He made a little sound, not quite a cry but very close. Karim shook his head again.
“No,” he whispered. “Don’t. You must let Rachel sleep.”