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Thank heavens for sat-nav, she thought as she tapped in the name of the hospital and waited for a map to appear on the screen. She peered at it. It seemed that Chislehurst was on the edge of the Kent countryside—less than an hour from here, especially at this time in the morning.
But, even though there was barely any traffic around, Isobel had to force herself to concentrate on the road ahead and not focus on the frightened thoughts which were crowding into her mind.
What the hell was Tariq doing driving around at this time in the morning? And what was he doing crashing his car—he who was normally as adept at driving as he was at riding one of his polo ponies?
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel as she tried and failed to imagine her powerful boss lying injured. But it was an image which stubbornly failed to materialise, for he was a man who was larger than life in every sense of the word.
Tall and striking, with distinctive golden-dark colouring, Sheikh Tariq al Hakam commanded attention wherever he was. Complete strangers stopped to watch him walk by in the street. Women pressed their phone numbers into his hand in restaurants. She’d seen it happen time and time again. His proud and sometimes cruel features had often been compared to those of a fallen angel. And he exuded such passion and energy that it was impossible to imagine anything inhibiting those qualities—even for a second.
What if...? Isobel swallowed down the acrid taste of fear. What if her charismatic boss was in danger? What would she do if he was in a life-threatening condition? If he...he...
She’d never thought of Tariq as mortal before, and now she could think of nothing else. Her heart missed a beat as she registered the blaring horn of a passing car and she tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. There was no point in thinking negatively. Whatever it was, he would pull through—just like he always did. Because Tariq was as strong as a lion, and she couldn’t imagine anything dimming that magnificent strength of his.
A dull rain was spattering against the windscreen as she pulled into the hospital car park. It was still so early that the morning staff hadn’t yet arrived. The whole building seemed eerily quiet as she entered it, which only increased her growing sense of foreboding. Noiselessly, she sped down the bright corridors towards the A&E department until she reached the main desk.
A nurse glanced up at her. ‘Can I help you?’
Isobel wiped a raindrop from her cheek. ‘I’ve come...I’m here about one of your patients. His name is Tariq al Hakam and I understand he’s been involved in a car crash.’
‘And you are?’ enquired the nurse, her carefully plucked eyebrows disappearing beneath her fringe.
‘I work for him.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,’ said the nurse, with a dismissive smile. ‘You aren’t his next of kin, are you?’
Isobel shook her head. ‘His next of kin lives in the Middle East,’ she said. Swallowing down her frustration, she realised that she’d crammed her thick curls into a ponytail and thrown on a pair of old jeans and a sweater. Did she look unbelievably scruffy? The last kind of person who would be associated with the powerful Sheikh? Was that the reason the nurse was being so...so...officious? ‘I work closely with the Prince and have done for the past five years,’ she continued urgently. ‘Please let me see him. I’m...I’m...’
For one stupid moment she was about to say I’m all he’s got. Until she realised that the shock of hearing he was injured must have temporarily unhinged her mind. Why, Tariq had a whole stable of women he could call upon in an instant. Women who were far closer to him than Isobel had ever been or ever would be.
‘I’m the person he rang just over an hour ago,’ she said, her voice full of appeal. ‘It was...it was me he turned to.’
The nurse looked at her steadily, and then seemed to take pity on her.
‘He has a concussion,’ she said quietly, and then shook her head as if in answer to the silent question in Isobel’s eyes. ‘His CT scan shows no sign of haemorrhaging, but we’re putting him under observation just to be sure.’
No sign of haemorrhaging. A breath of relief shuddered from Isobel’s lips, and for a moment she had to lean on the nurses’ station for support. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Can I see him? Please? Would that be okay? Just for a moment.’
There was a moment’s assessment, and then the nurse nodded. ‘Well, as long as it is a moment. A familiar face is often reassuring. But you’re not to excite him—do you understand?’
Isobel gave a wry smile. ‘Oh, there’s no danger of that happening,’ she answered—because Tariq thought she was about as exciting as watching paint dry.
He’d often described her as the most practical and sensible woman he knew—citing those as the reasons he employed her. Once, she’d even overheard him saying that it was a relief to find a woman under thirty who wasn’t a distraction, and although it had hurt at the time, she could live with it. She’d always known her place in his life and that wasn’t about to change now. Her job was to soothe his ruffled feathers, not to excite him. There were plenty of other contenders for that category.
She followed the rhythmical squishing of the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes into a side-room at the far end of the unit, and the unbelievable sight that confronted her there made her heart skip a painful beat.
Shrouded in the bleached cotton of a single sheet lay the prone figure of her boss. He looked too long and too broad for the narrow hospital bed, and he was lying perfectly still. The stark white bedlinen threw his darkly golden colouring into relief—and even from here she could see the dark red stain of blood which had matted his thick black hair.
Waves of dizziness washed over her at the sight of the seemingly indestructible Tariq looking so stricken, and Isobel had to quash a stupid instinct to run over to his side and touch her fingers to his cheek. But the nurse had warned her not to excite him, and so she mustered up her usual level-headed attitude and walked quietly towards him.
His eyes were closed—two ebony feathered arcs of lashes were lying against a face which she could see was unusually blanched, despite the natural darkness of his olive skin.
She swallowed down the acid taste of fear. She had seen Tariq in many different guises during the five eventful years she’d been working for him. She’d seen him looking sharp and urbanely suited as he dominated the boardroom during the meetings which filled his life. She’d seen him hollow-eyed from lack of sleep when he’d spent most of the night gambling and had come straight into the office brandishing a thick wad of notes and a careless smile.
Once she’d started remembering Isobel couldn’t stop. Other images crowded into her mind. Tariq in jodhpurs as he played polo with such breathtaking flair, and the faint sheen of sweat that made his muddy jodhpurs stick to his powerful thighs. Tariq in jeans and a T-shirt when he was dressed down and casual. Or looking like a movie idol in a sharply tailored tuxedo before he went out to dinner. She’d even seen him in the flowing white robes and headdress of his homeland, when he was leaving on one of his rare visits to the oil-rich kingdom of Khayarzah—where his brother Zahid was King.
But she had never seen her powerful boss looking so defenceless before, and something inside her softened and melted. At that moment she felt almost tender towards him—as if she’d like to cradle him in her arms and comfort him. Poor, vulnerable Tariq she thought bleakly.
Until the reality of the situation came slamming home to her and she forced herself to confront it. Tariq was looking vulnerable because right at this moment he was. Very vulnerable. Lying injured on a hospital bed. Beneath the wool of her sweater she could feel the crash of her heart—and she had to fight back a feeling of panic, and nausea.
