it just the Sheikh? Idris.
He had breathtaking presence. The photo the hospital had supplied with his bio had been flattering—pitch-black eyes, high cheekbones, dark chestnut hair—a tick in all of the right boxes, so that was little wonder. But in real life?
A knee-wobbler.
She only hoped it didn’t show. Much.
She tried a discreet sidelong look in his direction but the full power of his dark-eyed gaze threatened a growing impatience.
He had said he was Idris Al Khalil and not the long-lost son of Omar Sharif, right?
“Amira,” she repeated, unsuccessfully reining her voice back to its normal low octave. “Where did you say your daughter was?”
“Out,” came the curt reply.
Huh. Not a flicker of emotion.
Still waters running deep or just a protective papa bear?
Not the way she usually liked to do things, but then she wasn’t in the habit of “pitching” herself to be the surgeon of choice, either. One of the few things she solidly knew about herself was that when it came to Ear, Nose and Throat surgeries, she was one of the best. If she thought there was someone else better for the job she wouldn’t have even showed up. But this was her gig. She’d known it from the moment she saw Amira’s case history.
She tipped her chin upward, eyes narrowing as she watched Idris observe her in return. His black eyes met hers with a near tactile force. Unnerving.
She looked away. Maybe this was some powerful sheikh-type rite of passage she had to go through. She crinkled her nose for a moment before chancing another glance at him.
Yup. Still watching her. Expectantly. Still super-gorgeous.
She pursed her lips. He’d better not be waiting for a song and dance.
She glanced at her watch.
That was about half a second used up, then.
Looked up at the ceiling—eyes catching with his on the way up.
Still staring at her.
She remembered a trick one of her colleagues taught her. Pretend he was in his underwear. She gave him her best measured look all the while feeling her blush deepen as she pictured all six-foot-something of Idris naked, which was really...much nicer than she probably should be finding the experience.
This whole staring/not staring thing was a bit unnerving. Part of her wished she’d brought a sock puppet.
Robyn! Do not resort to sock puppets!
She clapped her hands onto her knees again.
“So...what do I call you?”
His dark eyebrows drew together into a consternated furrow.
“Idris.”
“Oh!” She blinked her surprise. “Phew! I was a bit nervous there that I was meant to bow or ‘your highness’ you or something. Idris. Great. Beautiful name. I believe that’s after one of the Islamic prophets in the Qur’an. Yes? Did you know it’s also a Welsh name meaning ‘ardent lord’ or ‘prince’? Fitting, right?”
“I am neither a prophet nor a prince,” he answered tightly.
Okay. So he was a king, or a sheikh, or a sheikh king. Whatever. It made no difference to her, not with how full her plate was with the hospital on the brink of closing and an endless list of patients Paddington’s could help if only its doors were kept open. Besides—she chewed on her lower lip as she held another untimed staring contest with him—she was just making chitchat until his daughter showed up.
Blink.
He won. Whether or not he knew it. Who could stare at all that...chiseled perfection without blinking? He had it all. The proud cheekbones. The aquiline nose. Deliciously perfect caramel-colored skin. The ever so slightly cleft chin just visible beneath more than a hint of a five o’clock shadow. She didn’t know why, but she was almost surprised at his short, immaculately groomed dark hair. He would’ve suited a mane of the stuff—blowing in the wind as he rode a horse bareback across the dunes. Or whatever it was sheikhs did in their spare time. The color of his hair was run-your-fingers-through-it gorgeous. Espresso-rich. Just...rich. Everything about him screamed privileged. Polar opposites, then.
Of course she’d blinked first.
“Well, you know there’s also a mountain in Wales—Idris’s Chair. And just look at you there—sitting in a chair.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly. Most people would, at the very least, feign a smile.
Nothing.
“It rhymes!” She tacked on with a hopeful grin, trying her best to keep her nerves at bay.
Nothing.
His lips, though clamped tight, were...sensual. She’d already noticed he curved them up or down to great effect. Disconcerting in a man who, on all other counts, embodied the definition of an alpha male. The perfect amount of six-foot-something. For her, anyway. She liked to be able to look a man in the eye without too much chin tilting. If she were in heels? Perfect. Match. Not that she was on the market for a boyfriend or anything. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to stifle a guffaw. As if.
He looked fit. Athletically so. She would’ve laid money on the fact the hotel swimming pool had seen some well-turned-out laps this morning from the spread of his shoulders filling out what had to be a tailor-made suit. She tipped her chin to the side, finger tapping on her lips, wondering if she could drum up the Arabic word for tailor.
“Here we are! I even found a mug! The butler told me builder’s tea always has to come in a mug. Preferably with a chip, but I’m afraid this one has no chips.”
Robyn lifted her gaze, grateful to see Idris’s assistant arrive, face wreathed in a triumphant smile, carrying a tray laden with tea fixings and a huge pile of scrummy-looking biscuits. Were they...? Oh, wow. Dark chocolate–covered ginger biscuits. In abundance!
“These are my absolute favorite!”
“We’ve done our research. Let us hope,” Idris continued in his lightly accented English, “that you have done yours.”
The words were a dare. One she’d needed no prompting to resist.
“It’s actually been fascinating going over Amira’s notes. It’s kept me up at night.” She saw a flash of something indecipherable brighten Idris’s dark eyes. “In the best possible way.”
Kaisha set the tea tray down between them.
“Heavens! There are enough biscuits here for an army! Is Amira coming with a group of her friends?”
“No. This is just for you,” she answered, her beautiful headscarf swishing gently forward as she leaned to pour a cup of mint-scented tea for Idris and herself from a beautiful china teapot.
“Oh, you are a sweetie. Thank you. It’s Kaisha, isn’t it?” Robyn asked.
“That’s right.”
Robyn repeated the name. “In Japanese it means enterprising, or enterprise, I think.” She found herself looking to Idris for confirmation. He looked like a man who had answers in abundance.
“I thought you said you weren’t a linguist, Miss—”
“Doctor,” Robyn jumped in with a smile. It was her whole life—her job at Paddington’s—and heaven knew she’d far rather be defined by her work than her less edifying home life as a spinster.
“Doctor,” Idris corrected, eyebrows lifting as if he were amused by her insistence upon being called by her rightful title. “For someone who professes to only speak ‘menu’ you seem to know your way around the world’s languages.”
“Oh, yes, well...” She felt her cheeks grow hot. Again. Not a handy time to