She remembered thrusting the package into his hands and stomping off home to an empty apartment, cursing the arrogance of the Playboy Prince.
Closing her mind to the disturbing memory, Isobel let herself into the apartment using the complicated trio of keys. Experience made her listen for a moment. But everything was silent—which meant that his servants had all gone home for the evening.
In his dressing room she found jeans, cashmere sweaters and a leather jacket—and added a warm scarf. But when it came to selecting some boxer shorts from the silken pile which were heaped neatly in a drawer, she found herself blushing for the second time that day. How…intimate it was to be rifling through Tariq’s underwear. Underwear which had clung to the oiled silk of his olive skin…
Frustrated with the wayward trajectory of her thoughts, she threw the clothes into an overnight bag and let herself out. Then she phoned the hospital, to be told that the Sheikh’s condition was satisfactory and that if he continued to improve then he could be discharged the next day.
But the press had got wind of his crash—despite the reassuring statement which Isobel had asked his PR people to issue. Fabulously wealthy injured sheikhs always provided fascinating copy, and by the time she arrived back at the hospital the following morning there were photographers hanging around the main entrance.
Tariq had been transferred to a different side ward, and Isobel walked in to see a small gaggle of doctors gathered around the foot of his bed. There was an unmistakable air of tension in the room.
She shot a glance at her boss, who was sitting up in bed, unshaven and unashamedly bare-chested—the vulnerability of yesterday nothing but a distant memory. His black eyes glittered with displeasure as he saw her, and his voice was cool.
‘Ah, Izzy. At last.’
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
‘Damned right there is.’
A tall, bespectacled man detached himself from the group, extending his hand and introducing himself as the consultant. ‘You’re his partner?’ he asked Isobel, as he glanced down at the overnight bag she was carrying.
Isobel went bright red, and she couldn’t miss the narrow-eyed look which Tariq angled in her direction. But for some reason she was glad that she wasn’t the same wild-haired scarecrow she’d been in the middle of the night. That she’d taken the care to wash and tame her hair and put on her favourite russet-coloured jacket.
Just because the Sheikh never looked at her in the way he looked at other women it didn’t mean she was immune to a little masculine attention from time to time, did it? She gave the doctor a quick smile. ‘No, Doctor. I’m Isobel Mulholland. The Sheikh’s assistant.’
‘Well, perhaps you could manage to talk some sense into your boss, Isobel,’ said the consultant, meeting her eyes with a resigned expression. ‘He’s had a nasty bang to the head and a general shock to the system—but he seems to think that he can walk out of here and carry on as normal.’ The doctor continued to hold her gaze. ‘It sounds like a punishing regime at the best of times, but especially so in the circumstances. Unless he agrees to take things easy for the next week—’
‘I can’t,’ interrupted Tariq testily, wondering if his perception had been altered by the bump on the head he’d received. Was the doctor flirting with Isobel? And was she—the woman he’d never known as anything other than a brisk and efficient machine—flirting back? He had never found her in the least bit attractive himself, but Tariq was unused to being overlooked for another man, and his mouth thinned as he subjected the medic to an icy look. ‘I need to fly to the States tomorrow.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. You need rest,’ contradicted the consultant. ‘Complete rest. Away from work and the world—and away from the media, who have been plaguing my office all morning. You’ve been driving yourself too hard and you need to recuperate. Otherwise I’ll have no alternative but to keep you in.’
‘You can’t keep me in against my will,’ objected Tariq.
Isobel recognised that a stand-off between the two men was about to be reached—and she knew that Tariq would refuse to back down if it got to that stage. Diplomatically, she offered the consultant another polite smile. ‘Does he need any particular medical care, Doctor?’
‘Will you stop talking about me as if I’m not here?’ growled Tariq.
‘Just calm and quiet observation,’ said the doctor. ‘And a guarantee that he won’t go anywhere near his office for at least seven days.’
Isobel’s mind began to race. He could go to a clinic, yes—but even the most discreet of clinics could never be relied on to be that discreet, could they? Especially when they were dealing with billionaire patients who were being hunted by the tabloids. Tariq didn’t need expensive clinics where people would no doubt seek to exploit his wealth and influence. He needed that thing which always seemed to elude him.
Peace.
She thought about the strange flash of vulnerability she’d seen on his face and an idea began to form in her mind.
‘I have a little cottage in the countryside,’ she said slowly, looking straight into a pair of black and disbelieving eyes. ‘You could come and stay there for a week, if you like. My mother used to be a nurse, and I picked up some basic first aid from her. I could keep my eye on you, Tariq.’
‘WHERE the hell are you going, Izzy?’
For a moment Isobel didn’t answer Tariq’s growled question as she turned the small car into a narrow country lane edged with budding hedgerows. Why couldn’t he just settle down and relax—and be grateful she’d managed to get him out of the hospital? Maybe even sit back and appreciate the beauty of the spring day instead of haranguing her all the time?
It wasn’t until she was bowling along at a steady pace that she risked a quick glance and saw the still-dreadful pallor of his face, which showed no signs of shifting. He was in pain, she reminded herself—and besides, he was a man who rarely expressed gratitude.
Already she’d had to bite back her words several times that morning. They had left by a staff exit at the back of the hospital, and although he had initially refused to travel in a wheelchair she had persuaded him that it would help elude any waiting press. Which of course, it had. The photographers were looking for the muscular stride of a powerful sheikh—not a man being pushed along by a woman. She remembered her mother telling her that nobody ever looked at people in wheel-chairs—how society was often too busy to care about those who were not able-bodied. And it seemed that her mother was right.
‘You know very well where I’m going,’ she answered calmly. ‘To my cottage in the country, where you are going to recuperate after your crash. That was the agreement we made with the doctor before he would agree to discharge you. Remember?’
He made a small sound of displeasure beneath his breath. His head was throbbing, his throat felt as dry as parchment, and now Izzy was being infuriatingly stubborn. ‘That’s the doctor you were flirting with so outrageously?’ he questioned coolly.
Isobel’s eyes narrowed as she acknowledged her boss’s accusation. In truth, she’d been so worried about him that she’d barely given a thought to the crinkly-eyed consultant. But even if she had fallen in love at first sight and decided to slip the doctor her phone number—well, it was none of Tariq’s business. Wasn’t she doing enough for him already, without him attempting to police her private life for her?
‘And what if I was?’ she retorted.
He shrugged. ‘I would have thought that extremely unprofessional behaviour on his part.’
‘I hardly think that you’re in any position to pass judgement on flirting,’ she murmured.
Tariq