Challenging The Doctor Sheikh. Amalie Berlin

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      Typical.

      Traffic stopped at the light, and Dakan took off, as fast as he could weave through the waiting cars and trucks, counting on the three royal guards behind him to keep up. Back on the walkway, his feet ate up the decorative tile expanse separating him from the bazaar blocks away.

      At least something had changed since his last time on foot in the capital. The cobblestones were gone. The highly trafficked pedestrian walkways had transitioned to decorative tiles in different shades of sand—something he might’ve appreciated if he’d only been seeing it in a photo. But here every time his foot touched the walk his frustration increased. Even his fingernails felt tense as he dug them into his palms.

      It wasn’t just having to fetch the person he’d come to meet that had him wanting to ring one of the jets to go somewhere twenty degrees cooler, it was that he was there at all.

      England could be cold in the winter, but at this time of year it was downright pleasant. Additionally, he went where he wanted, never had guards trailing after him, dated whomever struck his fancy, and he drove. He had everything there, most important of all freedom.

      Since his residency had ended and he’d earned his license, Dakan had snagged a sweet ride, a flat that made panties hit the floor, and had started shopping around established practices to decide where he’d like to begin the career he’d worked years for. That’s what doctors did when their education was finished—opened or joined a practice—but before he’d gotten to see even a single patient he could call his own he’d been summoned home.

      All damned fine reasons to wake up irritated.

      Another block and the decorative tile walk opened up to a wide lane lined with stalls on either side, sprawling out from one of the oldest buildings in the city—a holdout built by imported Byzantine craftsman. It had been made entirely too well to do the sensible thing and fall in to make way for a new era, an era that required more than a single clogged lane for people doing their daily shopping like that which faced him now.

      It would be just as crowded inside—merchants waited years to get to move into the old building. Even with it practically butting up against the impressive modern towers built in the last decade—luxury dwellings, businesses, and prosperity on display two short blocks away—people still had to crowd through open-air shops to buy their groceries and necessities.

      As much as Dakan loved his father, when it came to the way he ruled, the way he kept things always the same—as if it’d been so much better back then—made Dakan want to shake him. Or lead a revolt and then leave Zahir to rule, thus freeing Dakan to return to England.

      Just find her and make sure to get her number so he could just call her next time she skipped out as if she was here on a tourist visa. Then maybe make a note to have the clerk write her a stuffy memo about the dossiers of royal contractors out there waiting to take her place should they need to.

      What did she even look like?

      She was British, so fair probably. Maybe dark hair but pale skin. Look for the tourists.

      Scratch that. Look for the guard sent to accompany her. Or ring the guard. By all that was holy, he was losing his mind.

      “Figure out who her escort is and call him,” he said to his men, leaving them to it and moving into the crowd. He stood taller than most and that helped. It also helped that as people caught sight of him they moved as much as they could to give him room to pass.

      But none of these people were the ones he was looking for. A sea of bodies, and none bearing royal colors.

      By the time he reached the large arch leading inside, he’d started to sweat.

      “They’re in the third arcade, Your Highness,” said a voice at his shoulder and Dakan nodded, yanking off his dark glasses and stashing them so he could see in the much lower lighting as he picked up the pace.

      By the time he’d entered the ancient third arcade, he’d caught sight of the colors he’d been looking for. From there, he looked to the side for the woman.

      There was a woman on his left, a simple green scarf covering her head. Was that her? Some tourists and those who worked in the country covered their heads out of deference to their customs...

      Whatever, she was British so the same rules didn’t apply.

      He reached for her elbow to turn her toward him. Wide and startled pale green eyes fixed on him, a boost of the exotic amid the warm tan skin that greeted him. Exotic, but not.

      This wasn’t her.

      He might get away with touching a foreign woman, but he’d never put his hands on a female citizen unbidden. And this woman was definitely a citizen. Damn.

      * * *

      Nira Hathaway stared up at broad shoulders and tousled black hair framing the most startlingly attractive male face she’d ever seen. When she’d zeroed in on his dark brown eyes a weird heaviness had hit her chest and her knees had given the sort of twinge no doubt designed to remind her they could bend in the middle. And that they might do so whether she wanted them to or not.

      The man snatched his hand back and bowed, his Arabic flowing like music to her ears. “Forgive me, I thought you were someone else.” When he straightened he started to frown and she hadn’t even said anything yet.

      “It’s all right, sir. Though I must ask, who did you think I was?” Her Arabic, though better than it’d been a few weeks ago when she’d really started to pour on the effort, still sounded mechanical and sloppy even to her amateur ear, but it was good enough to muddle by.

      Since her arrival in Mamlakat Almas, very few people had spoken to her, the only thing she was actually ready for. She’d been learning Arabic for months because she’d wanted to learn it since childhood, but that didn’t mean she spoke to anyone outside of her instructors, who were expecting her to sound somewhat silly. Starting the program as a working adult also meant she didn’t give it as much time as she would’ve liked to. Or hadn’t until the last few weeks.

      Normally she’d never have asked Mr. Universe for clarification, but he’d thought she was someone else. That meant she looked like someone he’d expected to find, someone who belonged.

      The dark brown eyes with thick black lashes she could’ve been convinced to murder for drifted back to her from her escort, eyes sharpening in focus.

      Clearly there was something going on she didn’t get. Something other than her having a possible backside doppelganger roaming the city.

      “Are you Nira Hathaway?” the beautiful man asked, switching to English.

      She nodded and switched too. She wasn’t going to flirt with the regrettably handsome man. Flirting would be a dumb idea for a number of reasons, not the least of which being her cluelessness about how it’d be looked upon in this country. Women probably didn’t just date in Mamlakat Almas or pick up random men at the market.

      “I am. You are...?”

      “Dakan Al Rahal,” he said, dark brows pinching together to make a slash across his forehead.

      Her stomach soured.

      As soon as she heard his name, the resemblance to Zahir came into focus. СКАЧАТЬ