Falling For The Sheikh She Shouldn't. Fiona McArthur

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      To Trishabella—who makes me smile.

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE lift doors opened. Prince Zafar Aasim Al Zamid stepped inside and to his disgust his heart began to pound.

      Someone slipped past him into the elevator and he couldn’t help the deeper breath he took as the doors shut. A drift of orange soap vividly recalled the memory of fruit-laden trees in the palace grounds as a child, and, by association, the memory soothed him.

      Thoughts that calmed were an excellent idea. Life had been much less complicated then. He opened his eyes as the lift shifted under his feet.

      Lately he’d been acquiring phobias like new shirts. Since the crash it had been heights, now elevators—worse every ascent—until even a closing door caused symptoms. Perhaps it was a sign the claustrophobia in his life had worsened since he’d been forced to give up his work in favour of royal duty.

      He would address his inner calm with the solitude of a retreat as soon as he sorted this latest mess. The vastness of the desert always made his problems seem less significant.

      For the moment he was cramped and palpitating in a lift with the painful reminder of all he’d lost. This particular enclosed space held a fragile-looking new mum with a baby in one arm, a beaming new father clutching a balloon, and thankfully the orange-scented woman as well, dispensing an aura of tranquillity.

      The metallic ‘It’s A Boy’ helium balloon bobbed towards him and Zafar leant closer to the wall and regretted his decision to stay at this hotel. A baby hotel. The last place he needed to be. The image he carried of his tiny son’s body flickered in his mind and he forced it away. Such happy families were constant reminders he could have done without but the stakes were high.

      He had hoped to find Fadia, his estranged cousin, prior to the birth but time was against him. He’d discovered she planned to convalesce here instead of hospital if he arrived too late to find her beforehand.

      The lift jerked and his pulse thundered in his ears.

      The balloon wielder tugged on the string as the proud new dad hailed the woman. ‘Carmen! We didn’t get a chance to thank you.’ He grabbed the woman’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘You were amazing.’

      The woman retrieved her hand and smiled at the young mother. ‘Hello, again, Lisa, Jock. Lisa was the amazing one.’

      Her voice soothed like a cool hand to his forehead and, infinitesimally, a little more of his agitation drained away as the phobia receded. Thankfully. It would be useful if his psyche finally accepted the obscenity of irrational fears.

      ‘It was a beautiful birth.’ She cast Zafar a swift apologetic look for their exclusive conversation, and the unexpected impact of her one glance collided with his, as if that ridiculous balloon had bumped him, before she turned back to the father.

      Medical background, he concluded, and dismissed the stab of frustration the loss of his career left him with. Midwife probably. He’d met women like her before—those natural soothers who could create a rapport with strangers without effort.

      He lifted his head and glanced over her. Anything was good to take his mind off the ascent through the lift well.

      Thankfully his phobia retreated by the second as he studied her. She had thick black hair coiled on her head like rope. An Irish accent. Carmen seemed more Spanish than Irish yet she suited her name.

      He watched her mouth as she said, ‘How is young Brody?’

      Jock laughed, loudly, and Zafar winced as the noise jarred his ears. ‘He’s a bruiser.’ The father’s pride resonated within the four walls as the lift stopped at the fifth floor with an extra jolt. The cage floor fell six inches and bounced before it came back to the level. Everyone laughed nervously, except Zafar. He closed his eyes and swallowed.