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Falling For Her Reluctant Sheikh
Amalie Berlin
Falling for a desert prince…Sleep therapist Dr Adalyn Quinn has had difficult patients before…but gorgeous Prince Khalil Al-Akkari presents a whole new challenge! Darkly brooding, and haunted by the night he failed to save his brother, Khalil is the last man Adalyn should desire…But as they share long nights under a desert moon it becomes impossible to deny their sizzling chemistry. Can Adalyn help Prince Khalil recover the peace that eludes him…even if it means unlocking the heart she’s protected for so long?
Praise for Amalie Berlin (#ulink_9a5d1179-f5b2-584f-ac63-a977e0302fd9)
�A sexy, sensual, romantic, heartwarming and purely emotional, romantic, bliss-filled read. I very much look forward to this author’s next book and being transported to a world of pure romance brilliance!’
—GoodReads on Craving Her Rough Diamond Doc
The angrier she got, the pinker she got, and the more heated her whispers became …
And, despite her tirade, with his close proximity she kept looking at his mouth as she made her displeasure known. When she did subconsciously she’d lick her lips, or for a fraction of a second lose her train of thought.
For once he had no idea how she’d respond to a kiss. Would it scare her off? Make her agree to go back to the palace and then home? Make her want more?
What reaction did he even want? He was no longer certain he could follow through on the idea to kiss her senseless and send her away for the sake of his friendship with her brother.
All his planning didn’t give him what he needed. Curling his hand around that bun her hair had been worked into, he pulled her to meet him and caught her with her mouth open. A tiny sound of surprise and alarm sounded in her throat, but it took very little for her to relax into his grip. Her head fell back and it took no coaxing at all for him to gain entrance into her mouth.
Suddenly it was no longer about scaring her away. It was about the feeling that rolled over him as his hand left her hair and he wrapped his arms around her …
Dear Reader (#ulink_abe9565f-c9f6-5f10-9d0f-f20580000450),
In my mind, there are three kinds of sheikh heroes:
1. The kind of sheikh I like.
2. The kind of sheikh I want to shake to death.
3. The hybrid sheikh—the one I want to shake to death, but who eventually wins me over by learning from his mistakes and giving me some good grovelling at the end.
Number threes are my favourite. Throw some sleep therapy into the concept, and I’m hooked. Of all the books I’ve written, this one’s probably my favourite—maybe even surpassing my debut.
Before I got started, I got to do loads of super-fun �research’ (note the ironic quotes).
I watched every documentary on sleep and dreaming I could get my hands on. As an unrepentant nerd, this made me completely happy. (�Research.’)
I read some smoking-hot sheikh books—you know … for mood. (More �research’.)
And I spent hours naming fictional countries—something I’d never done before. It was surprisingly difficult but, like most of my brainstorming, I turned it into a fun game and then spent way too much time debating the best locations of the �e’ and the �a’. (�e’ and then �a’ won, because �Merirach’ sounded better than �Marirech’. See? Yet more important �research’!)
I’d say I hope you have as much fun reading Khalil and Adalyn’s story as I had writing it, but that just seems impossible to me. So instead I’ll say, if you get one quarter of my �pleasuretainment’, I’ll consider all those hours of �research’ well worth the effort. :)
Amalie X0
There’s never been a day when there haven’t been stories in AMALIE BERLIN’s head. When she was a child they were called daydreams, and she was supposed to stop having them and pay attention. Now when someone interrupts her daydreams to ask, �What are you doing?’ she delights in answering, �I’m working!’
Amalie lives in Southern Ohio with her family and a passel of critters. When not working she reads, watches movies, geeks out over documentaries and randomly decides to learn antiquated skills. In case of zombie apocalypse she’ll still have bread, lacy underthings, granulated sugar, and always something new to read.
Falling for Her Reluctant Sheikh
Amalie Berlin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Laurie Johnson, my second editor. She once suggested I tackle a sheikh book, something I hadn’t considered before and probably wouldn’t have considered for a good long while without her planting the seed.
To Laura McCallen, my current editor, for supporting my tendency to run around naked in public. Okay, that’s a lie. But she does support my tendency to go off on wild story tangents, something I’m extremely grateful for.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u3ded1fd5-fa7e-5644-ad0a-72798c8e298e)
Praise for Amalie Berlin (#ulink_1230840a-42bb-5e72-ae2b-da491e992382)
Excerpt (#u1927b143-e7a6-58cf-9c6a-3b36bd2f23ed)
Dear Reader (#u43a4a668-51cc-592d-ab4a-b2bb7c1e8fce)
About the Author (#uc3ad5661-399d-5abf-a660-0a3502620b7e)
Title Page (#u404c4182-b2dd-5941-bb4a-775d7c14bf93)
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_2985d3e4-2282-5171-a7ec-e173aea7e5cd)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_13a78d8d-e671-5c48-bb03-439ee809b07c)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_486d35df-c257-5c96-b129-d8b19c8bee5c)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_97d8c3a6-3d1d-5eb2-8514-d6f8b9e85125)
BOBBING ON WHIPLASH desert winds, Dr. Adalyn Quinn’s helicopter dropped and paused, dropped and paused, descending in the aeronautical equivalent of two steps forward, one step back, each jostle adding another crack to her already brittle nerves.
Digging her nails into her seat base, she pitched forward, stiff and straining against the seat belts across her hips and torso. The overly snug belts, while uncomfortable, felt illogically safer than wobbling about like week-old gelatin, as she had been.
Her older brother tried but had never quite understood the cold, black pit of fear that sank in her middle when she even thought of travel, so there was no way for him to comprehend the abyss that had been trying to swallow her sanity during the long hours of this godforsaken journey. The one he’d tossed her into.
He’d thought himself helpful when he’d said, “Take those antianxiety medicines you never take, to help your trip.”
Because remaining calm while dying a fiery death? So much better than feeling acute terror without pharmacological filters. Sure, she could concede that point. But having her wits artificially addled when she’d probably need them to escape burning, twisted wreckage—supposing she lived that long? Less brilliant.
The idea that one of the vehicles wouldn’t crash was the thought that sounded like fantasy. Naturally, her airborne catastrophe would happen on this last leg of her trip, worlds away from lace balconies and her safe, quiet life.
Her stomach curdled as they fell another few feet. She just had to hold on a little while longer.
The pilot’s voice crackled in her headphones, alerting her to their landing at the former airport site for the Kingdom of Merirach. As if she couldn’t feel it. As if every shift of the wind didn’t brutalize her mind with images of crashes and broken, twisted bodies. After nearly twenty-four hours of this self-inflicted mental torture it would be easy to think she’d become numbed to it, but that primal fear still had the ability to tighten her body until her shoulders stretched stiffly, like old boot leather. She wouldn’t have been surprised if at any second her skin cracked and her collarbone snapped in half.
Broken.
Twisted.
Body.
They touched down with a jolt, bounced twice and settled. She immediately began fumbling with the latches on her belts, trying to get free. To get out of the flying death trap. To get to him.
Adalyn had a rule about putting her life or well-being into someone else’s hands. A simple rule really … don’t do it! But right now it comforted her to think that the distance between her and safety could be measured in feet. He’d be waiting for her.
Jamison’s best friend.
The one she’d never met because she didn’t travel, but to whom Jamison had sent her.
He’d be there, and he’d take her to a nearby hotel where she could eat the protein bars she’d brought for sustenance, drink water purified by her special tablets and sit in the dark with the earplugs she’d brought to create the illusion of solitude.
She could rest. Sleep. Sleep was what she needed. Sleep and alone time somewhere without wheels attached. If she had all that, it might lower her blood pressure enough that she couldn’t see her clothing move from the force of each beat of her heart …
“Door,” she said, dragging the headphones off and hanging them from the armrest on her seat. And then again, “Door.”
Why were they moving so slowly?
She needed out.
Tomorrow she would officially see her patient, work on diagnosing and outlining a treatment plan, then go the heck home.
End of adventure.
The only thing she had going for her now was the darkened interior of the helicopter. No one could see her expression. She didn’t have to work so hard to keep it all hidden as she had on the other planes and vehicles. The last thing she wanted was to put her issues on display and have someone label her hysterical—one of the most offensive words she’d ever learned and had heard daily in the months after the crash.
Outside the chopper, in the not-too-far distance, a ring of headlights provided the only light source, aside from the blinking things on the helicopter controls. Even she—the Queen of Never Ever Traveling—knew what an airport looked like at night. Runways. Dual bands of lights. A big building with lots of people inside. Lots of light.
Here there was only darkness and the cars. One more dangerous vehicle for her to climb into before she reached her assignment.
It really wasn’t any wonder that someone living in a country so recently torn apart by civil war would have sleep difficulties, but she was here anyway.
Seconds later, the door slid open and a blast of cold air surprised her lungs, sending her into a coughing fit. But with the help of her black-suited entourage, she still scrambled from the helicopter. Once her feet hit solid ground she hunched forward and ran toward the cars, clueless as to whether or not the men followed.
Only when she reached the cars, far outside the reach of the rotating blades of death, did she straighten and look back. Two of her escorts—men in suits who’d met her at the airport of the neighboring kingdom—had made the run with her and the rest now gathered her embarrassing amount of luggage and followed.
Should she tip them? Was that expected? Insulting? Her travel book had said nothing about how to treat the servants of a royal house.
The man who had been her translator reached her side and herded her toward one of several identical sport utility vehicles with darkened windows. Though he was careful not to touch her, he wrenched open the back door of the vehicle and gestured to her with such force that she climbed in.
Unlike when he’d retrieved her, the man didn’t even attempt English this time. With so little sleep and such a terrible grasp of the language, Adalyn couldn’t even tell where the words started and stopped in whatever he’d said. He could’ve even said one of the couple of hundred words she’d managed to learn, and she wouldn’t have known it.
How much farther would they have to go?
Once she stopped moving, her body caught up with her lungs—recognizing the cold finally—and she folded her arms across her chest and rubbed them to try to increase their warmth.
“You should’ve worn a jacket.”
The low male voice broke through the sound of her pounding heart and shivering breaths, the first indication she wasn’t alone in the car. She turned and as her eyes adjusted to the low lighting after the blinding headlights she could make out a traditionally robed figure not two feet away in the seat beside her.
“I thought I was coming to a hot place. I was told that it was chilly at night, but I thought that just meant I needed long sleeves, not a parka.”
A soft sound—trapped somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle—answered her. Like strained amusement.
“Are you Khalil?” Please, say yes. She’d made it all the way to his country—surely he would meet her at the airport?
Loud voices outside the vehicle cut through the air and her fellow passenger’s voice dropped to a sharp whisper. “Yes. We will speak further at the palace, Adalyn. It isn’t far.”
“Palace? I thought we would be working in a clinic environment. And I’d stay at a hotel.”
“I do not sleep at a clinic.”
“Right … Sorry …” Of course he wouldn’t sleep at a clinic. Why had she thought that? Because it was familiar. Because that’s how things worked where she practiced … at her clinic. But this place was not New Orleans.
“Later I will explain.” His words clipped the frosty air with short, abrupt sounds. If she could still see her breath, his words would’ve probably floated away in blocky cubes, formed by hard right angles and razor edges.
The front car doors opened, the suited men climbed in and for seconds she could see him under the light of the dome, but he’d already turned away, cutting off the conversation with body language. It was a technique she often used, or had used enough to recognize it.
He fixed his gaze out his window, though at what she couldn’t guess. Nothing, unless he had the night vision of a cat.
The status of her rescue mission suddenly seemed like a charade, as capricious and dangerous as a ride in anything with wheels. Like the large vehicle she was in. It started rolling and banished all other thoughts from her mind—just as cars always did for her. Even now, years later, having to ride in a car felt like a forced march to her own execution.
The only thought that stayed with her as she analyzed every bump and turn for the telltale feeling of a wreck in progress was: What had Jamison gotten her into?
It couldn’t have been more than a couple of miles’ travel, but it took ages. By the time they stopped, her jaw hurt from clenching and she felt just a little light-headed from her breathercise.
Khalil climbed out as soon as the vehicle stopped rolling, before Adalyn could even really get a glimpse of him. “See her settled in the suite adjoining mine.” All she could make out was a tall man with dark robes and the traditional dress that by turns intrigued and worried her.
Once those words were out—and in English, no less—he immediately switched over to his native tongue, leaving no doubt that he wasn’t speaking to her. Well, the sooner she got to her suite, the sooner she could sleep and, she prayed, stop shaking …
Khalil tugged on a clean shirt. A dress suit. At this hour … Since he’d been in Merirach, he hadn’t worn much but the robes, at least when he was in the palace and bound to the demands of his position, but Western dress would probably set her more at ease.
If he was honest, it was more than that. The robes that tradition dictated reminded him what he was doing there, and the responsibility he carried. Of who he was supposed to be. Not himself. But now, dealing with her, he didn’t want to be Sheikh Khalil of Akkari, Regent of Merirach, he wanted to be Dr. Khalil Al-Akkari—the son not born to rule. Maybe it would help them both deal with the situation if they came at it as equals.
Tomorrow he’d have to go back to the robes that helped people in his host kingdom identify him as the current regent, and she’d have to become used to seeing him in them.
Knowing Jamison’s history meant he knew the history of his chubby little sister, too. Jay always referred to her as the world’s biggest introvert. A homebody who considered a trip to the library or bookstore to be her portal to all things exotic. Anyone would be leery of traveling to a country so recently out of a civil war, but someone who never traveled—not even on the best of circumstances—compounded the size of the favor he’d owe her for agreeing to come such a long way to help him out.
It was late so he skipped the tie—he wanted familiarity, not formality. Just to be courteous.
The other courteous thing would’ve been to send one of the family jets to retrieve her, at least then she would’ve arrived sooner and had an easier journey, but that would’ve just triggered questions from his elder brother. Malik always had questions. The sort of questions Khalil had no desire to answer. And if things worked out with Adalyn, questions he’d never have to answer.
He stepped through the door to the adjoining room where she’d been settled, and froze in his tracks. Her back was to him, all supple skin on display, so pale he’d swear she’d never even heard of the sun. The only thing covering her was a scrap of white cotton panties stretched over the plump little cheeks on display as she bent over the bed and dug around in the suitcase for clothes.
She’d had the same idea to change.
She just hadn’t been as quick about it as he had.
She really wasn’t the chubby little girl he’d seen in pictures …
Khalil’s mouth watered so sharply that his jaw ached.
He swallowed, shocked by the pang of want that shot through him.
Smooth, slender and curved … she looked like a cool, life-giving oasis in a barren landscape.
Not yet aware that he’d entered, she continued by straightening with another scrap of white cotton she shook out and pulled over her head.
Khalil closed his eyes, a baby first step that allowed him a small measure of control of his body, control he needed to force a half turn away from her. When he knew he’d be facing the wall, he opened his eyes again, but he could still see her in his peripheral vision.
Damn.
He closed them again. It was either that or give in to the powerful urge to look. Clearing his throat was the best warning he could think of to soften the surprise of his arrival. “I apologize, I should’ve knocked.”
She squawked and then there was a thump, along with some other commotion he couldn’t identify. If it had taken effort to look away, it took even more not to look back.
“Should I come back?” he asked, because he had to do something …
“Yes!” The word erupted from her and set him in motion. As he reached for the door, a more tentative babble came from behind him, “No, wait. You can stay, just don’t turn around for a minute.”
She muttered something beneath her breath, disgruntled words he couldn’t make out. If she was anything like her brother, those words wouldn’t be fit for company anyway.
Khalil stayed in place and stared hard at the carved wooden door.
Count the lines in the wood grain.
Don’t think of the mostly nude woman behind him.
And for God’s sake, don’t look.
He lost track of the lines and had to start again. Keeping control of his mind and actions was easier when he wasn’t tired, but he’d been in the palace for nearly a week this time around … Tired wasn’t a strong enough word for what he was—he was exhausted in a way that even heart-accelerating doses of caffeine couldn’t help.
“You can turn around. I guess I’m decent.” She didn’t sound at all certain.
When he turned back, it was to overly bright eyes and pink cheeks. He locked his gaze to hers in another effort to exert control over his baser impulses. “You don’t look like your picture …” Which was not the way he’d intended to start this conversation.
“Sorry.”
Why was she apologizing? He was the one who’d barged in.
She tugged at the bottom hem of her short dressing robe, the fidgeting making clear her response: sorry was a verbal fidget.
In the picture he’d seen, she’d been at least thirty pounds heavier and the victim of an unfortunate complexion issue. She’d worn glasses and had kept her hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. She’d looked like someone studious and intelligent. And now … she looked like a dark-haired pixie with large green eyes. And breasts he could clearly see the shape of through the slinky blue material of her robe.
Eyes! Look at her eyes!
He’d had a reason to come into the room …
“Your equipment …” He grasped for his train of thought.
She clutched the robe tighter, eyes widening further as her voice hitched. “My equipment?”
“Not that equipment …” It was all he could do not to groan at yet another verbal misstep. It didn’t help that he’d put her one door away from him, like a shiny-new mistress. And, sweet mercy, did she ever look the part of timid virgin, blushing and stammering the first time her body was exposed to a man’s eyes.
For the first time in Khalil’s life he wished he could take advantage. Tear that robe off her, coerce and tease until she lay back on the thick bed behind her … and welcomed him with open arms. And legs. His eyes wandered down, past the hem of the silky material to the smooth, pale, shapely legs …
For God’s sake, look her in the eye.
“My men have brought your medical equipment to the palace.” He cleared his throat, which had gone dry again. “Where would you like it delivered?”
“Oh.” She shifted around again, fidgeting with the belt and the hem again, anywhere the material folded or covered her. “I assumed that I was placed in this room so that I would have access to your room to monitor you as you sleep.”
With a quick hop—which sent too many interesting places jiggling—she rounded the suitcase and perched on the corner of the bed. Her knees clamped together and she resumed smoothing the fabric down her thighs, willing it to cover more of her body than it had when she’d been standing. “Monitors here, but the camera equipment in your room. I know that sounds really creepy, but it is recorded so I can review it the next day to make sure that I didn’t miss anything, but after that it gets erased. Otherwise I’d just have to hover at your bedside and watch you sleep.”
A short nervous laugh escaped her before she clamped her lips shut, the very picture of distress despite the laugh. “I doubt anyone would be able to get any rest if they felt like someone was standing there, leering at them. My aunt’s cat used to do that in the morning when she wanted me up. Just sit there and stare … And it always worked. Woke me right up.”
Babbling, a sign of nerves. Definitely nervous. Maybe shy, too, if the way she worked to keep him from even seeing her knees was anything to go by. And all that wasn’t what he should be focusing on.
He’d known she would need to monitor him, he was familiar with the method in which sleep studies were conducted, but the way she described watching him sleep only made him think of that long dark hair spread across cool white cotton pillows … and the slinky robe slipping over pale, soft flesh.
She added, “It’ll take several hours to set up all the equipment so I thought maybe we would do it tomorrow. I really won’t be of any use to anyone until I’ve had at least eight hours.”
Right, she was tired. He should say something, stop her babbling.
“Of course.”
Had he ever dated a woman so shy and modest? If he had, he should probably remember her if that appealed to him so much. He’d think less of any man who confessed this sort of reaction to innocence. To think himself capable of it. That emotion could be named by the taste of bile at the back of his throat.
But the sudden, intense aversion to the thought of accepting her help disgusted him even more.
Help was the whole reason for her to be there. He should just tell her everything right now. That would replace the sweet, nervous innocent with something uglier, a reflection of the blackness devouring him from the inside out. She’d give him her pity, at best, and she sure as hell wouldn’t sit there, barely clothed, trusting him to fake his way through the actions of a good man.
“I doubt the equipment is going to be very helpful. My problem is I don’t sleep. I’ve got insomnia. And when I fail to fall asleep, I don’t tend to stay in bed for hours, trying. Not a lot to monitor when that happens. Which happens a great deal of the time.” He’d opened his mouth, said words, but not the right ones. His throat refused to let those words pass.
“Well, you have to sleep sometime. I mean, you’re not a drooling idiot right now, and after you miss enough sleep—well, I’m sure you’ve noticed the effects. But there are also other effects that are actually quite dangerous. We all have a maximum amount of time we can go without sleep and then our brains start taking micro-sleeps when we’re trying to work. Or trying to drive. Insomnia sounds like a pain in the butt, but really it can be very dangerous.”
Dangerous, like his reaction to her. “So your solution to it is?”
Solution? The only one he needed right this second was the one that would keep him from ogling his oldest friend’s little sister.
“There are a lot of different treatments, and sometimes that means a sleeping pill if you’re at a state where it’s gotten very dangerous for you to stay awake.”
He’d never consciously liked the idea of innocence before. Before he’d come into the room and been tantalized by the nearly nothing she’d had on—coupled with his weakened state—this was certainly a natural reaction. Not just another flaw in his character.
“Lose this battle so you can live to keep fighting the war. On another day. Night.”
He just had to remember who she was and what she was to him. It shouldn’t matter to him what she thought of him, so he should be able to tell Adalyn the truth and actually get the help he’d dragged her around the globe for, not send her to treat imaginary illness.
“You know,” she continued, “if the battle is a desire to sleep the natural way. Sleep aids aren’t the greatest thing in the world, but sometimes they are necessary as you’re trying to retrain yourself and your bed habits.” She yawned, reminding him that she was tired, too. Probably jet-lagged.
And she’d stopped smoothing her robe closed. Definitely tired.
He remained standing as stiff as his suit by the door. “I have sleep aids but, as you said, I try not to use them. I may have dragged you across the world for nothing, Dr. Quinn.” Doctor. Not Adalyn. Speak to her professionally, and perhaps his thoughts would follow that lead.
“Am I getting that you don’t want me to be here? Did Jamison twist your arm into agreeing to this?” Her gaze sharpened and she stood, her head tilting and those pretty green eyes fixing on him with an intensity that faked alertness. And a little bit of hope. “Because if you really don’t want me here, we could take a day or two and just diagnose and prescribe a treatment and I could go home, rather than sticking around to see you through whatever you need to get right. Jamison could be satisfied with that.”
“It’s not that I don’t want you here,” he said before it became clear she was offering him an out. She didn’t want to be there any more than he wanted her there. They could put on a brief show of his treatment, enough to satisfy Jay, and then she would happily go home. “I just don’t sleep well at the palace. Or at all. I sleep …” He rubbed his brow, pausing as he paced to a chair and sat. Her fatigue amplified his own. “I sleep better when I’m not in the palace.”
“Do you keep an apartment somewhere else? Or are you referring to before you came to this kingdom to do the regent thing?”
“I don’t keep an apartment. It’s a tent.” Why was he telling her this? Letting her witness his trouble would lead to questions, the bane of his existence. The prospect of her finding out seemed worse than the whole world finding out, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care how sexist that seemed to him—not wanting to be treated or rescued by the sweet creature his inner caveman salivated over. He didn’t want her to know any of it, his weakness, his shame.
“I take short medical missions out into the desert to treat those who live in camps far from medical assistance. I’m a doctor, it is just who I am, and I want to hold on to that part of myself while I’m doing my duty for my country and my family, and not let my skills grow rusty for lack of use, as they would if I stopped practicing and became a full-time bureaucrat.”
“And when you’re on your medical missions in a tent, you sleep better?” she said, fixating on that part.
What she should be fixating on was the fact that he didn’t sleep here in the palace. If she were to continue to treat him, she’d have to go, too. “I can’t explain it, but I should’ve thought about that before you came all this way. I know you have no desire to come out into the desert with me, and the equipment would be useless there anyway. Apologies, Adalyn.”
She sat back down on the edge of the bed, thoughtful frown firmly in place. “How long are the missions?”
“Many days.” Not that many, but more than two. He would disappear for weeks on end if he could get away with it.
“And people don’t know you’re doing this?”
She should sound less interested, not more.
“I keep a small staff here, and I’m always available via satellite phone. Since this is not my home country—it’s my mother’s kingdom—the people here, especially those out in the desert camps, don’t know what I look like. I go by a different name. We have a fake logo sprayed onto the trucks. It’s …”
“Tricky.” She grinned as she said the word and then yawned wider than she had before. “Well, I have a theory about the sleeping in the tent thing. But if you only take a short trip when you go, I’m assuming it’s fairly frequent short trips?” She stopped, shifted on the bed some more and tried again. “I can go … on one trip. And that would be a few days of monitoring when you’re actually sleeping. And then we can tell Jamison that we worked on a treatment plan for you to implement.”
“The sun is brutal, Adalyn. You will burn to a crisp. And the heat, if you’re unused to it …”
“Where I live it gets very hot. And humid. Super-humid. So humid that mold is a massive problem. I can handle heat. And wear sunblock. We’ll be going in a vehicle anyway, right? Something with a roof?” She frowned momentarily, eyes sliding to the side beneath pinched brows. That was the kind of look he wanted from her. Uncertainty.
Uncertainty her words did not share. “I can go from the vehicle to the tent and not have to be in direct sunlight too much.” She stood and wandered toward him but passed by to reach for the doorknob. “I hate to kick you out of a room in your home, but I’m really very tired. I think I have jet lag. Jamison never adequately described it to me before. It’s awful.”
He took the hint and rose to move that way. “The way my schedule is arranged, I really should head out in the morning.” Before she had time to rest up.
She opened the door and held it patiently for him. “What time?”
“It’s best to travel in the morning, before the heat of the day.”
“What does that translate to in numbers?”
“Six to ten, give or take.”
She looked at the clock, no doubt calculating just how few hours of rest she’d be getting if she actually went through with the plan. “Okay. I’ll be ready at six.” Another yawn and then she wandered back to the bed, leaving him at the door. “Try to rest if you can. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Pulling down the blankets, she crawled in—robe and all—and reached for the clock to set it.
She’d never go. In the morning, after she’d had a few hours to reset her brain and remember how much she hated to travel, she’d come to her senses and he could trundle her back off to the helicopter pad and send her home. “Good night, Adalyn. Thank you for being willing to try.”
“No offense, Khalil, but I did it for Jamison. I’m sure you’re a nice man and that you deserve help—it’s torture to be kept awake, like real torture, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone—but if anyone else had asked me to come, you’d be on your own.”
She clicked off the light and he allowed himself a tiny smile. He’d probably do anything for Jamison, too; he was closer than Khalil’s real brothers had ever been. “Duly noted. And you have tried to do that by coming all the way here to meet with me.”
“I’ll see you at six,” she said again, then sat up so he could see her only by the light spilling through the door to his chamber. “And, Khalil? Knock first next time. I wouldn’t want to cause you years of therapy.”
What did that mean? She’d already lain back down and burrowed into the pillow, effectively shutting him out. “Sleep well, little sister,” he murmured, shutting the door behind him. Calling her “Doctor” hadn’t done anything for his libido. Maybe calling her “little sister” would be able to keep him from thinking about the lush flesh he’d seen on display.
Jay needed a talk about sending his innocent, pretty little sister off to foreign countries and men who might take advantage of her.
Men of weaker constitution than Khalil.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_9beb4af9-1713-578f-9827-d2f018cfb8f7)
COLLEAGUES LIKED TO JOKE that Adalyn had chosen sleep medicine as her specialty in a direct reaction to how badly she’d longed for sleep during medical school and residency.
�Sleep is for the weak’ was practically a motto of the twenty-first century. A crutch to help people get by in this competitive world and all its requirements for productivity, to prove they weren’t beholden to the hours of vulnerability almost every living creature had to succumb to daily. The concept of sleep as a luxury.
Sacrificing sleep meant compromising health. Physical. Mental. Emotional. And she was doing it again in order to keep up with Khalil’s schedule and not let her brother down. Her brother, who would want her to be healthy! Ah, more contradictions of modern living.
Sleep-deprived, but clean, mostly upright and dressed—unlike the last time she’d seen Khalil—Adalyn knocked on the door to his suite while looking at her watch. Ten to six—she was tired and only passably functioning, but she’d made his hour of departure. She’d even managed to pack a small bag with the bare minimum she’d need for three days in the desert.
No answer.
He’d said he never slept in the palace, though she doubted that was true unless he had been out in the desert as recently as a couple of days ago. Being tired could explain his forgetting to knock before he’d entered her bedroom the previous night, but if he’d gone more than forty-eight hours without any sleep he wouldn’t be nearly as coherent as he had been in their short conversation. But if he was sleeping in after she’d managed to get up and get ready …
He’d been so adamant he wouldn’t sleep.
Truly, insomnia wasn’t what she’d expected she was coming to treat. One of the ways that Jamison had talked her into coming, his strongest method, had been guilt. What did you do when a hero was wounded? You treated them. And by the story he’d told, with bold strokes, Jamison had painted Khalil as a wounded hero. Not two months ago the country had been in revolt, the royals murdered, except for the heir—who was underage and too young to take the throne. Khalil and his brother had undertaken a mission to rescue the boy and the brother hadn’t made it back. But Khalil had, with the boy—the heir who was too young to rule and now away at some school somewhere.
After all that? Well, if she’d had to guess, she’d have said his problem would’ve been nightmares. But then again, that was her specialty.
If he’d heard her knock, plenty of time had passed for him to throw pants on and answer the door. Adalyn knocked again. Still no answer.
Well, two knocks were warning enough. She grabbed her bag—the smallest she’d brought—and marched into Khalil’s bedroom suite.
Coming from a bright room to a dark one, all she could see was the outline of heavy drapes over the bedroom windows. She couldn’t even begin to guess where light switches would be in the chamber, so she marched to one of the windows and pulled open the heavy brocade curtain. And then she could see. Empty. Khalil wasn’t sleeping in. Khalil wasn’t there.
But at least now she could see the door leading out.
He’d all but screamed last night that he didn’t want her there. She’d just expected that once they made a plan he would stick with it. Propelled by the sick feeling she’d been left, she hurried out of the room, just shy of a run.
For once her travel paranoia had done something good for her—despite her exhaustion, when the men had marched her to the suite, she’d still been able to memorize the route out of the palace in case of another sudden civil war—who knew how often those things happened in this place? Or fire. Fire was something she’d want to be able to escape without a map or a guide. One turn, another long hallway, more gilded opulence and crystal light fixtures … doors, doors, doors … another turn. She finally made it to a courtyard, having passed not a single person along the way, and stepped out just in time to see two large trucks pulling away.
Not knowing what else to do, she shouted, “Khalil!”
He sat in the driver-side window of the first truck, and when she’d shouted the name she probably shouldn’t even be using at the palace he did nothing but make eye contact with her through the side-view mirror. He’d heard her but didn’t take his foot off the gas.
A surge of frustration rode a wave of irritation, and before she even knew it she’d broken into a dead run after the truck.
Leaving without her? Make her travel all the way to this place, make her lose sleep and get on dangerous vehicles on land and air and then abandon her where she could be of no help to him, for no danged reason? If they made travel guide recommendations for the perfect time to shout at or make rude gestures at a royal, this would be at the top.
The trucks moved slowly enough in the courtyard to give the illusion that she might catch up with them, but the closer the gate came, the more that hopeful thought evaporated.
Muttering expletives under her breath wasn’t enough, either.
The trucks slowed, making a sharp turn for the gate—too far to reach, and what was she going to do if she got there? Climb on a moving vehicle? Yeah, right.
She’d never been moved to violence by anyone before, but she dropped her bag and grabbed the nearest rock—small enough to throw but big enough to express her frustration—and channeling her anger she let the rock fly with as much force as a really tired nerdy chick could muster.
She didn’t aim for him. She didn’t really aim. She probably couldn’t aim if she tried, at least not beyond the general intention to hit the truck somewhere, but the rock sailed strong and true, impacting the side window of the rear seat of the truck, right behind where Kahlil sat. It immediately spiderwebbed.
That stopped the truck.
That stopped both trucks.
Khalil got out, looked at the window and slammed his door. A couple tiny fragments of glass in the center of the impact rattled and fell out from the force of his gesture. He shook his head minutely at the men in the truck behind and stormed toward Adalyn, red crawling up his neck and over his face. “What the hell was that?”
Right then Adalyn remembered that she was pretty much afraid of everything. Including confrontation. Having big angry men yell at her was also on her Do Not Do list.
But if she backed down now, he’d probably just send her back inside and go on his merry way to wherever he was going.
“Emergency call button.” Adalyn’s short words came out with a grunt, the sound of exertion … mental if not physical. Before he reached her she jogged for the other side of the trucks to the passenger-side door. As she wrenched it open and climbed the running board to step in, strong hands locked on her hips and set her back on the ground.
There, in the relative seclusion of the side door area, he gave her a spin and forced her to face him. He was close. Too close, all but plastering her to the side of the truck, his arms forming a cage around her that kept her in place so he could effectively loom over her. “I know how you Quinns are fond of bucking authority figures, but in this country—and while still at this palace—you can’t behave like that toward me.”
It hit her how he was dressed. No robes today. No suit, either. He wore khakis and a light linen shirt with the collar unbuttoned, something that made him look almost like a normal person, not the autocrat he sounded like.
Their cozy little passenger-door alcove blocked the early-morning breeze and cocooned her in a heady scent of cedar, hints of citrus and something utterly masculine. Looking up into his golden-brown eyes, she felt entirely too vulnerable suddenly, as if he’d see the white flag waving in her pupils and know how close she was to backing down. She squinted at him, relying on the decreased area to make her intentions harder to read. And if it worked, she’d have to remember to use it the next time she got the harebrained idea to yell and throw rocks at a royal.
And she still couldn’t hold his gaze.
Looking at his mouth? That was just as bad, but for more confusing reasons.
Her gaze tracked farther down. His neck was safe, though a vein stood out there, pulsing, and seeing how fast his heart beat caused a little flutter in her belly. Even in her worst imaginings related to this trip, they had all been about accidents, explosions and possibly drowning at sea after a water crash … Never once had she thought she’d have to fight her patient to be able to treat him. The small amount of backbone she’d found quickly faded. All she wanted to do was get her bag and go back inside, but she muttered, “You were leaving me behind on purpose.”
Khalil dropped his arms and stepped back, needing to put some distance between himself and the woman who was supposed to be sleeping through his departure. Distance would help him keep from shaking some sense into her or just putting his hands back on her.
Even after he’d grabbed places on the truck and forced himself to focus on her, his palms still tingled with the memory of firm, curvy hips.
With a slow breath in through his nose, he took a few seconds to look over the courtyard. At least no one but the small private crew who traveled into the desert with him had witnessed the rock showdown.
“I assumed you wouldn’t want to go.” That was true, at least until he’d seen her outside with the overnight bag. After that, he really had no clue why he hadn’t stopped. Maybe the idea that one more hurdle would make her give up … Only, it hadn’t.
She looked him in the eye again, but he could tell from the color in her cheeks and the way her hands now gripped the door frame that her bravery was faltering. “I told you I would come last night.”
“Yes, and then you had a little time to sleep on it and think more clearly. At least, I’d hoped that would be the case.” He managed to calm his voice when he said it, a small victory considering he wanted to shout, Go back inside. Go home. Go anywhere else.
“So you really don’t want me here. You let me come all this way and …” As she spoke, her words came more and more slowly, and those soft green eyes he’d so admired hardened to bare slits. She might be tired, she might not enjoy confrontation and she might be a little intimidated by him, but she was still angry. “I’m not at my best today, but I do still have a little bit of functioning gray matter working for me. You’re sabotaging this on purpose.”
“Adalyn—”
“No. I’m the one talking now!” She released the frame of the door and reached up to jab him once in the chest. “You didn’t just let me come all this way, you assured that I would have the roughest trip possible, right? You have loads of planes—you and Jamison have gone to practically as many countries as the Peace Corps on them—but I had to arrange transport and ship the equipment … and all that. You sent your black-suited henchmen to retrieve me at the last possible minute, but that’s it. You made my journey as hard as you could possibly make it in order to make me be the one who broke a promise to my brother. Didn’t you?”
And he wouldn’t defend it or deny it.
But if she poked him in the chest again, he was going to …
No, there would be no feeling up his best friend’s irritating little sister. He crossed his arms to keep his hands under control and said instead, “You really want to go into the desert? It’s nothing like you read in books. No rest stops between here and where we’re going. Poisonous creatures that sting and bite. Dust, sun, heat—this isn’t some glorified field trip.”
She stepped up on the running board and turned to face him, now somewhat closer to eye level, and used that added height to glare at him, her chin tilting to match the challenge in her posture. “Say it,” she demanded, the tiniest wobble in her voice breaking through his resistance more than the bravado she put on. “Tell me I can’t go. I’ll tell Jamison that I did all I could, but, whatever you promised him, you broke your word. Go ahead, Khalil. Tell me I can’t go. I’m happy to go pack my bags and find a way out of your gilded palace in the sand and go home. But you have to say it, because I came all this way for Jamison, and I’m not going to be the one who lets him down.”
Son of a …
“Just sit down and shut up already,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Adalyn drew a deep, satisfied breath, and at the second her lungs felt filled to capacity the true meaning of her victory pushed the air back out again in a rush. She’d just had a fight in order to be allowed to ride out into the scorching desert in a big dangerous truck with a man who really didn’t want her with him.
So not a victory.
She edged onto the seat and closed the door. He rounded the truck and climbed back in at the driver’s side, slamming his own door and bringing down another shard of glass from the window she’d broken and that now had a tiny hole in the center. The window that now looked … really dangerous.
“Aren’t we going to change to a truck without a broken window?”
“No. Want to change your mind and go back inside?” He pulled on his seat belt and started the truck.
Yes!
“No, I’m going with you unless you order me not to.” And now that she thought about it, that was a really stupid idea.
The trucks started rolling forward, continuing on … Without her bag! “Are we going to turn around and fetch my bag?”
If she’d eaten anything in the past several hours, she’d have been sick. No bag meant no protein bars, no water purification tablets … She was going out into the desert where they probably only had water sources of questionable cleanliness …
“No. Want to change your mind?”
Yes. Yes.
“Is that all you can say?” She grit her teeth and fixed her gaze in front of her. “I’m coming with you. But if I start to stink in the next couple of days I’m going to roll around in your fresh clean clothes so you can bask in my stench just as much as I’ll have to.”
“Good. Someone as irritating as you are shouldn’t smell so good.”
The urge to take off one shoe so she could better beat him with it nearly overwhelmed her limping self-control. Yet more evidence that being sleep-deprived in a foreign land brought out the worst in her.
Could someone get motion sickness if they were only going a few miles per hour? Her stomach thought so. “You’re the one who’s all sultan-like, but I wouldn’t think it kingly to tuck tail and run when confronted with a problem. You should put off your trip and stay home to get treatment.”
“Amazingly enough, this isn’t just something I can put off. I’m not going into the desert because you don’t want me to. I’m also not going just because I’m tired and want to sleep, though honestly I am really looking forward to that part. In the other truck is a cool box with vaccinations to be given. The tribes don’t have the best access to clean water, and though we’ve put measures into motion to change this they still struggle with disease because of it.”
Okay, that deflated her anger balloon a little. Except that bit about the unclean water, and her not having the tablets … “Maybe not, but you’re not going to get my bag because you want to put me out. So don’t get too smug and superior just because you have a valid reason for going on this trip.”
She pretended he hadn’t said she smelled good, because she really didn’t know what to do with that information. Thank him? Give him the name of her favorite perfume?
“Fine.” He grabbed the radio handset and said something she didn’t understand as the truck rolled on.
The other truck hadn’t yet passed through the gate, and she turned to look over her shoulder, trying to work out what he’d just done. “Why did you agree to my coming in the first place if you’re so all fired against it?”
“I was tired, Jay was persistent,” Khalil answered, hanging the radio handset back in its place.
With how stringently he wanted her to not go with him, Adalyn had no illusion he would wait if she climbed out of the truck and ran to pick up her bag. Resigned, she dragged on her seat belt.
Looking at him made her angrier. Looking out the side window made her feel sick. Looking out the front terrified her. She went with angry and twisted slightly under the confines of her overly tightened seat belt to look at Khalil.
Even scowling, as he was, he was handsome. That probably played into his privileged air. Royalty, doctor, handsome … It all added up to spoiled and used to getting what he wanted. He probably had insomnia because his bed was too lumpy, like the princess and the pea.
“I don’t buy it,” she said, trying to ignore the way her stomach squeezed and rolled with every creak and crackle from the window she’d broken. The wind tore at the shards, barely holding together. What if the bits flew up and got in his eyes and blinded him and he crashed them into something deadly? She chanced another glance back at the hole, mentally calculating what was safest—for the windows up front to be up or down. If she rolled down her window, would the air flow drag the shards into the cab or push them out of the truck rather than in? Maybe they wouldn’t fly around at all. Maybe this was just another paranoid scenario playing out in her mind, like the thousands of fiery deaths she’d imagined on the way there.
Stay on topic.
Khalil was the topic. And narrating all her bloody imaginings to him wouldn’t inspire any sort of confidence that she could help him. “I can’t believe that with this level of aversion you left the situation to chance. You’re too domineering and controlling to leave this up to fate. You fit the alpha-male mold even without the royalty stuff added on, but without even knowing me you counted on me chickening out. That’s dumb. Maybe you should try to sleep more.”
Antagonizing him probably wouldn’t inspire confidence in her, either.
He looked sideways at her, his eyes off the road long enough to increase her worry. She took a deep breath and tried to relax her arms and shoulders. With the road rushing at her, she couldn’t even release a fraction of that tension. She closed her eyes and tried again, channeling the physical manifestation of her fear to her right hand, where she could at least grip and abuse the armrest on the door and he might not see.
“You should try to sleep now,” he said, his voice remarkably level.
“Yeah, that won’t happen. I tried to sleep all the way here. It didn’t work at all.”
“Try again.” Whatever anger she’d roused in him earlier was now gone. He could’ve been telling her the time of day for all the emotion reflected in his tone. Maybe she hadn’t antagonized him so much after all. “We have a few hours’ drive ahead of us.”
“That may be, but …” But. But how much should she reveal? Would it make him act like less of a jerk if he knew what she was putting herself through for him? Or, more accurately, for Jamison? Or would he just use it as ammunition to get her back out of the truck and his presence? “I can’t sleep in a moving car. Or plane. You should be able to understand someone not being able to sleep when they want to. I would love to go to sleep and block all this out, but I can’t.”
“The truck scares you?”
“All vehicles scare me,” she muttered, and laid her head back, eyes still closed and arms now folded. “They’re dangerous. People die all the time in car accidents.”
Her voice became small and thready with the last statement, reminding him of her history in a way that left him feeling unaccountably exposed and irritated. When their parents had died, Jamison had been away at school with him, and Khalil had witnessed firsthand how destructive it could be to lose both your parents in your formative years. He’d pulled Jamison back from his more destructive actions, distracting him in whatever way he’d been able to … including a couple of fistfights just because picking a fight and making Jay mad at him had been the better alternative to the things he’d been about to do.
Had anyone helped her with her grief? If she really was scared of all vehicles, she must have felt put through the wringer to get here.
And that thought didn’t help, either. He wanted her to go, but using a fear born of the death of her parents to make her do what he wanted seemed like the worst kind of evil.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_7122b887-c727-5bbf-b9d6-3e4cdd22b1c6)
ADALYN WHITE-KNUCKLED HER way through the desert trek. Now and then Khalil talked to her, and she knew it for what it was—distraction. However much he didn’t want her there, when it mattered he was kind.
When they reached the camp location he turned and looked at her. “Take a few minutes to collect yourself before you get out, but don’t take too long—the sun is reaching its zenith and the heat will rise very quickly now that the air-conditioning isn’t running.” Nevermind the now somewhat larger hole in the back window …
She nodded, finally letting herself look out the dusty windows at the little tent village. “Khalil?”
Saying his name stopped him from climbing down, though the door was open. He closed it enough to dampen their voices and kept his low. “Don’t call me Khalil. I’m Zain while we’re here. The people know me by one name—having you use another will confuse things.”
“Right.” She nodded, still not thinking all that clearly. “Zain? There’s a man running toward the truck.”
That effectively took his attention from her. Zain-not-Khalil climbed down immediately and closed the door. Through the broken window she could hear them speaking, but that didn’t mean she understood the words. What she did pick up on was the urgency in the man’s voice. She leaned over to get a better view of him gesturing quickly toward one of the nearby tents.
“Adalyn, I need your help.” Zain still sounded as authoritarian as Khalil had, but it made her move despite the earlier order to stay until she’d collected herself.
Adalyn climbed out and rounded the truck, meeting him at the back. “What’s wrong?”
“His son is sick, and they’ve not been able to even keep water in him for two days.”
Adalyn looked at the man and then at Khalil, nodding. “What do you want me to do?”
He’d already pulled open the back doors of the truck and climbed in. “I want you to assist me. My medics aren’t here yet, they went back to get your bag. So you’re my nurse for now.” In the back, he dug into a couple of different trunks and one cooler, pulling out supplies and stuffing them into an actual old-time doctor’s bag.
“Nurse. Okay.” She nodded, even if she wasn’t sure what he wanted. “My clinical skills are rusty. I haven’t actually treated injuries and illness since residency.” Wait, what had he said? “Did you say that they went to get my bag?”
“Yes.” He answered her question first, then added, “If you can follow instructions, you’ll be fine.”
“I can follow instructions.” That probably wasn’t the correct word for it, considering he was more giving orders than helpful instructions. But she could follow orders, too, when it suited her to do so.
“Get the doors. Then catch up.” He jumped down, ushering the worried father with him off in the direction of the nearby camp.
Adalyn climbed into the truck, closed the trunks and flipped latches, then jumped down and did the same with the double doors at the back. Without the prospect of the vehicle moving, it lost its ability to scare her. Just having the chance to move and focus on something aside from imminent death let her compose herself. By the time she rounded the truck Khalil had reached a tent and she barely caught sight of him ducking to enter through the flap. Five more seconds and she might not have even known which tent he’d gone to.
As she hurried across the sandy expanse, the sun heated her dark hair to temperatures it never saw outside styling appliances. The long, thick, chestnut fall of hair carried that heat down her back so that by the time she reached the tent and called a greeting, she wished she’d pulled it up. Or cut it. Or maybe that she’d just let him head off into the desert on his own, rather than fighting to come with him. The man hadn’t been wrong in warning her that she wasn’t built for this kind of adventure. New Orleans heat was a different creature entirely.
“Zain?” She said his fake name, not knowing what the protocol was to enter someone’s tent. You couldn’t exactly knock or ring the bell.
“Come.” He had that autocratic edge to his voice again.
She pulled open the flap and stepped inside. It smelled like a sick ward, but it was somewhat cooler than the air outside, something she was thankful for.
In the center of the tent a woman covered in layers of undoubtedly uncomfortable cloth held a small child in her lap. From the sweat matting his short hair and the color of his face, Adalyn could tell his fever had reached worrisome levels. Without asking any other questions, she stepped over and knelt with Khalil.
“Rotavirus,” he said. “I need to set up an IV and get some fluids into him.”
Khalil hadn’t had much time to diagnose or examine before she’d gotten there, and that meant no time to sort out his supplies. When she opened the satchel and pulled out a bag of saline, she looked at him. “You expected rotavirus?”
“They had an outbreak of it a few weeks ago, and that’s actually the vaccines I’d intended to give.”
Rotavirus … What did she remember about this? Not usually deadly, but it could be. Poor drinking water and sanitation usually caused outbreaks.
“Are any other children ill?” While she quietly asked for updates—just making sure that her rusty information wasn’t going to cause tetanus—she fished out other supplies. The IV kit. Alcohol preps. Tourniquet.
“Not right now. But we’re not going to be able to give the vaccine to him for a couple of days, just to make sure.” The more he talked, the longer he was within the small tent, the more like a regular man he seemed … and less like an angry dictator. “They should be healthy before it’s given.”
Though he looked somewhat severe still, tension no longer stood out in cords down his neck. No matter what kind of edge he had in his voice when he spoke to her, when he spoke to these people … his people … Khalil’s voice became much gentler. She didn’t even need to understand the words to know what he was doing. Comforting. Reassuring. Explaining treatment. The things a good doctor did. Was this the man that Jamison called his best friend?
Adalyn waited for a lull in the conversation to ask, “How can we keep the other children from getting it?”
“My medics have a new purification system they’ll set up when they get here. And we’ll see what we can do for other interventions.” He looked at her, his honey-brown eyes taking on the quality of examination, and before he even said anything she knew what he was looking at. Inside the tent, sheltered from the sun, her skin still burned. She was going pink. Her sunburn had already started. And she’d probably have freckles before they got back to the palace.
“I didn’t swim in sunblock before I left this morning, which I should have done. I will remedy that when they get here with my bag.” It still shocked her that he’d given in on that. She kind of wished she’d been nicer to him in the truck, and she hadn’t thanked him yet … “I misunderstood. When you said �Fine,’ I thought you just meant you weren’t going to quarrel with me, but you meant the bag, right?”
He nodded and tied the band around the unconscious boy’s arm, then began prodding for a vein.
“Thank you … Doctor.” She’d almost called him Khalil, it had been on the tip of her tongue. She should probably stop thinking of him as Khalil if she wanted to maintain his cover. Which she did. He’d done something kind for her in getting her bag, maybe she could turn this situation around and still get him to let her help him. Maybe tomorrow after he’d had a night of sleep he’d be more reasonable about it. Maybe she could win him over, get his cooperation … and shorten the length of time she’d need to stay there, away from home.
Despite feeling and feeling for a vein, he still hadn’t picked up the needle or alcohol prep.
“It’s hard to find a vein when they’re very dehydrated,” Adalyn said. This was actually something she was good at.
“I know.”
“Of course you do. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate you didn’t. I was thinking out loud. But, as rusty as most of my clinical skills are, I’m actually really good at IVs.” He looked at her, the weight of his gaze settling on her, considering. He’d let her do it if she convinced him. “I can hit it. If you like. It’s actually something that I do regularly for an elderly neighbor. She’s not a child, but she’s got tiny veins.”
“Your neighbor needs you to set up an IV for her?”
“I do blood draws for her weekly to take with her to her anticoagulation appointment. I draw in the morning when I get in from work, we put it into a thermos and she takes it with her. They can never hit the vein without several stabs, so she prefers it if I do it.” Rather than give a fuller recitation of her most recent IVs, she figured she’d said enough for him to decide and quieted to let him work it out.
“I appreciate the offer.”
The woman who held her child hadn’t said anything, and Adalyn didn’t know how much English she understood, if any. So she did what she could and smiled, reaching over to pat the woman’s arm. “It’ll be okay. We’re going to help him.” And then asked Khalil, “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, but ignored her offer in favor of palpating the tiny arm for a vein.
“Upper arm might be better. I’d say leg, but they can kick those out pretty easy.”
He flipped off the tourniquet and moved to the boy’s other arm, starting over again.
Her keys …
Adalyn patted the many pockets on her pants, unsnapped a thigh pocket and fished out the set, then snatched the little laser she played with her neighbor’s cat with.
“What are you doing?”
“This will help.” She pressed the button to turn on the cheap little laser pointer and pressed it to the boy’s arm where he was palpating for a vein. Through the thin layer of baby fat the light illuminated the dark pathways that were blood vessels. “That help?”
“What the …?” He blinked and let her track the light over the boy’s skin. There were special infrared lights he’d heard of for illuminating veins, but he’d never seen such a cheap-looking gadget do it. “Is that infrared?”
“Wee sight illuminators are best, and I have one for Mrs. Stiverson’s sticks, but I didn’t bring it with me. I’ve used this in a pinch before, though. I probably should have left my keys at the p—” She stopped herself before palace came out of her mouth. “At home.” A slightly flummoxed shake of her head and she moved past it. “But I’m kind of afraid something will happen and I’ll be separated from something important if I don’t have it with me at all times.”
If he kicked her out of the country, she meant. Khalil could read between those lines easily enough.
The thought had occurred to him.
Rather than comment, he reached for another alcohol prep, swabbed the skin and then lifted her hand to swab the tip of the light and the area she’d pressed against the small boy’s arm. When he was certain that it was all disinfected and the skin illuminated, he felt right over one of the larger, dark vessels. “It’s not all that deep,” he murmured, getting a nod from her.
“And there’s a small amount of thickness on the edges, probably the walls of the vessel, but if you aim for the center you’ll be fine.”
After a few more words of reassurance for the mother, he asked the boy’s name and gave instructions on holding him snugly in case he woke up and began to struggle.
“His name is Nadim, and he’s three,” Khalil said in quiet English, since Adalyn had wanted to know. “If he wakes up, drop the light and hold his legs. She’ll have his top half, but if he has use of his legs he’ll be able to put up more of a fight.”
“Of course.” She kept the light against the boy’s skin, but with her other hand reached down and wrapped her fingers around the tiny ankle closest to Khalil.
So, she could follow orders.
Carefully, he threaded the line into the boy’s vein and when rewarded with a blood return attached a saline flush to double-check. Sometime in all this she’d dropped the light and had taken over holding the line so it didn’t slip out.
When he’d confirmed that the vein was indeed intact still, he taped down the cannula and she hooked the tubing up to the bag and stood, letting gravity feed the fluid down to the end before he attached it to the needle.
“How are we going to hang it?” she asked.
“We’ll have a stand when the medics get here.”
“I made them late.”
“No. Well, yes, but you’re earning your keep.” Her little cheap key chain light had saved him a lot of headache. Khalil might not want her there to help him, but he could appreciate the help she provided for the people in his care. “I might not have hit that vein without your trick, and most assuredly would not have on the first try. Where’d you learn that?”
“It’s something I always check on pretty much every light I get my hands on.” She smiled at him, her first honest, unguarded smile. Her cheeks bunched, bringing the pink closer to her green eyes so that they seemed all the greener, and gave that suggestion again of innocence. Beneath her aggravation at him there was a sweetness about her.
“My dad and I used to put flashlights to our cheeks, noses, whatever … then turn off the lights and make faces at one another with glowing cheeks and black hollow-looking eyes. Got me in the habit of checking different lights against my skin.”
He spoke again with the mother, giving her instructions and explaining what he was going to do. When he stopped speaking and looked at her again, Adalyn continued her story. “I had to give a presentation in college and got my own pointer because I wanted to be the best. I was nervous talking in front of everyone, but I managed to get through the whole thing by distracting myself by pressing it against my arm or hand and watching the veins get illuminated. Coping mechanism that turned into a trick that helped me in residency. I was all about tricks that might make me better able to do the job. I’m not a natural, like Jamison.”
“That why you went into sleep medicine?”
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