Сандра Мартон – Desert Hearts: Sheikh Without a Heart / Heart of the Desert / The Sheikh's Destiny (страница 25)
He moved briskly through the sitting room. The first door was ajar. He hesitated, then pushed it open.
No crib. No stacks of baby gear—all the stuff he’d arranged to have delivered. He saw only a bed in the same condition as his own, blankets twisted and pushed aside as if the occupant had had difficulty sleeping.
It was Rachel’s room. Rachel’s bed.
There was the faint scent of lemon in the air. Rachel smelled of lemon. It suited her, that fresh, sweet-sharp tang. It was clean. Delicate.
Honest.
Who but an honest woman would have looked him in the eye when she admitted she’d hated the man who had been her lover?
Then, how had it happened? How could a woman like her have gone to the bed of a man she didn’t love?
Karim cursed under his breath.
He was here to deal with a crying baby. Nothing more, nothing less. That his thoughts were wandering was proof that he had to get some sleep if he was going to be able to function well enough tomorrow—actually, today—and put this mess behind him.
He strode back through the sitting room, went straight to the second door.
It, too, was ajar. He stepped inside.
Yes, this was the boy’s room. There was the crib. Boxes of baby stuff. The soft illumination of a lamp—what was that, anyway?
A lamp shaped like a carousel.
The work of his assistant?
He’d have to remember to thank her for her creativity, Karim thought wryly …
And then he saw Rachel.
She was asleep in a big wing chair, the baby in her arms. Her hair was loose, falling like a glossy rain over the shoulders of a high-necked white cotton nightgown long enough to cover her feet, which were tucked up under her.
Karim’s throat constricted.
He had seen this woman in glitter. In denim. He had seen her naked. She had been beautiful each time, but this, the way she sat now, so unselfconsciously lovely, so perfect and vulnerable, was almost enough to stop his heart.
Whatever the reason she’d been with Rami it didn’t matter.
What did matter was that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any other woman.
He drew a long, shuddering breath.
But wanting was not the same as having. And he could not have her.
It would only complicate something that was already far too complicated. He had a responsibility. A duty. To his father, his people, his dead brother’s memory.
The boy.
That was what this was all about.
His mother had been focused on herself. So had Rami. But he was not like that. He never would be. He—
“Babababa.”
The baby was awake, looking at him through his brother’s long-lashed blue eyes. Karim shook his head and put his finger to his lips.
“Shh.”
Wrong comment. The child’s mouth trembled. He made a little sound, not quite a cry but very close. Karim shook his head again.
“No,” he whispered. “Don’t. You must let Rachel sleep.”
The child’s mouth turned down. His small face darkened. Karim moved fast, lifted him carefully from the curve of Rachel’s arm and walked quickly into the sitting room.
Now what?
What did you do with a crying child? For that matter, what did you do with one that was not crying?
The boy blew a noisy bubble. Karim looked at him. What the hell did a bubble mean?
“Bzzzt,” the kid said.
Karim cleared his throat. He needed a translator.
Little hands waved. Small feet kicked. The round face screwed up.
“Okay,” Karim said quickly. “How about we, ah, we go downstairs for a while?”
Down the stairs they went.
The baby began to make little noises. Not happy ones.
“I don’t know what you want,” Karim said desperately.
God help him if it was a bottle of formula or, worse still, a diaper change.
The living room was lighter now; dawn was touching the soaring towers of the city. Karim went to one of the big, arched windows.
“Look,” he said. “It’s going to be a sunny day.”
More little noises. Karim had a yacht that sounded like that when it started up. Well, no. Not the yacht. The motor-boat that could be launched from it—
“Naaah. Naaah. Naaah.”
“Shh,” Karim said frantically …
Hell.
The kid was crying. Hard. Genuine tears were rolling down his plump cheeks. Karim looked for something to use to wipe them away. Dammit, how come he hadn’t thought to put on a T-shirt?
“Don’t cry,” he said. Carefully, he swiped a finger along the baby’s cheeks. A little hand grabbed his finger, dragged it to the rosebud mouth.
The noise stopped.
The tears stopped.
Teething. The kid was teething on his finger.
Karim smiled. He sat down in the corner of one of the curved living room sofas. Put his feet up on the teak and glass coffee table. Carefully arranged himself so there was a throw pillow behind him.
The kid was chomping away. And—
“Good, huh?” Karim said softly.
That won him a bubbly smile. Karim smiled back. The kid was cute, if you liked kids. He didn’t. Well, no. That wasn’t true. He didn’t dislike them.
He’d just never spent any time around one.
The kid smelled good, too. Something soft. Not lemony, like Rachel; this was a smell even a man who knew zero about children would automatically associate with babies.
The baby cooed. Smiled around Karim’s finger. Karim grinned. And yawned.
The baby yawned, too.
The curving lashes drooped.
“That’s it, kid,” Karim said softly. “Time to call it a night. You doze off; I’ll take you back to Rachel …”