The Return of the Sheikh Page 16

  Zain shot out of his seat and moved into the aisle. “What are you doing here?”

  Adan responded with a grin. “I am flying the plane, of course, and you should thank me. I’m the reason why we have yet to take off.”

  “I do not understand, Adan.”

  Neither did Madison, but she couldn’t wait to hear the youngest Mehdi’s explanation.

  “I delayed our departure because I suspected you would come to your senses and realize you could not let a woman like Madison leave.”

  “You came upon that conclusion on your own?” Zain asked in a suspicious tone.

  Adan looked a little sheepish. “All right, I admit that Elena formulated the plan, and I agreed to it. And if it had not worked, I planned to whisk Madison to Paris, which by the way is where we will be stopping for the night to refuel.”

  “You have a woman waiting for you there,” Zain said.

  Adan grinned again. “That is a distinct possibility.”

  Zain pointed to the cockpit. “Fly the plane.”

  “That is my plan, brother. And feel free to utilize the onboard bed during our flight.”

  “The plane,” Zain repeated.

  After Adan retreated, Zain returned to Madison and clasped her hand once more. “Let’s marry in Paris.”

  Oh, how she wanted to say yes. But first, she had a serious revelation to make. “Before I agree to marriage, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “You are not already married, are you?”

  She smiled. “No, but I am pregnant.”

  He stared at her for a moment before comprehension dawned in his stunned expression. “You are serious?”

  “Yes, I am serious. I wouldn’t joke about a thing like that.” But she wasn’t beyond using humor to defuse his possible anger over the secret. “And that’s the reason why I fainted. It wasn’t bad food or your overwhelming charisma, although that does make me want to swoon now and then.”

  When he failed to immediately comment, Madison worried that her attempts at levity hadn’t worked. That brought about her explanation as to why she had withheld the information. “I wanted to tell you, Zain, but I didn’t want you to have to choose between the baby and your obligation to your country. And I also need you to understand that it’s not that I didn’t want a child, I just thought I could never have one. I never wanted to deceive you, but—”

  He stopped her words with a kiss. “It’s all right, Madison. I could not feel more blessed at this moment.”

  Neither could she. “Then you’re okay with it?”

  “I will be okay when you say that you will marry me.”

  Madison held her breath, and finally took that all-important leap. “Yes, I will marry you.”

  Any reservations or hesitation melted away with Zain’s kiss. In a few months, she would finally have the baby she’d always wanted and thought she would never have, with the man she would always love.

  Epilogue

  “Here are your babies, Mrs. Mehdi.”

  After the nurse placed the bundles in the crooks of Madison’s arms, she could only stare at her son and daughter in absolute awe. Not only had her lone ovary functioned well, it had worked double time. She only wished their father had been there to see them come into the world.

  As if she’d willed his presence, Zain rushed into the room sporting a huge bouquet of red roses and an apologetic look. “The damn plane was delayed because of the rain,” he said as he set the flowers down and stripped off his coat.

  No surprise to Madison. Wherever there was rain, there was Zain. “It’s okay, Daddy. Just get over here and see what you’ve done.”

  He slowed his steps on the way to the hospital bed, as if he were afraid to look. But when he took that first glance at his babies, his eyes reflected unmistakable joy, and so did his smile. “I cannot believe they are finally here.”

  Neither could Madison. “After fourteen hours of labor, I was beginning to wonder.”

  He leaned over to softly kiss her. “I regret I was not here with you to see you through this.”

  “That’s okay. Elena stayed the entire time and held my hand, worrying like a mother hen.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I sent her back to the condo. She mentioned something about napping beneath the California sun so she could work on her tan.”

  He smiled as he brushed a fingertip across their daughter’s cheek. “She is beautiful, like her mother.”

  Madison pushed the blanket away from their son’s face to give his father a better look. “And our baby boy is so handsome, just like his uncle Adan.”

  That earned her a serious scowl. “You are determined to punish me for my late arrival.”

  “No, I’m just trying to cheer you up, but I guess under the circumstance, that’s not going to be easy to do.”

  “No, it is not.” He scooped their daughter into his arms with practiced ease, as if he’d been a father forever, not five minutes. “Holding new life in your arms helps ease the sadness.”

  It had definitely been a time of sadness back in Bajul, as well as a week full of unanswered questions. “How is Rafiq doing?”

  “It is hard to tell,” he said. “He seemed all right at the funeral, but he is not one to show any emotion.”

  Madison had learned that firsthand. During the the two times she and Zain had returned to Bajul, she couldn’t recall seeing Rafiq smile all that much. Then, neither had his bride. “I wish I had known Rima better. Do they have any idea what happened with the car, or why she was even in it alone that time of night?”

  When the baby began to fuss, Zain lifted their daughter to his shoulder. “No true explanations have emerged thus far. As it was with my mother’s death, we may never know.”

  For months Madison had considered telling her husband about the conversation with Elena involving his mother, but she’d decided to put that on hold for the time being. Today should be about the joy of new beginnings, not sorrow and regrets.

  The nurse returned to the room and when she caught sight of Zain, Madison thought the woman might collapse. It didn’t matter if they were seventeen or seventy—and this woman was closer to the latter—females always responded the same way to Zain. “Is this the babies’ daddy?” she asked.

  No, he’s the chauffeur, Madison wanted to say but bit back the sarcasm. “Ruth, this is my husband, Zain.”

  When Zain stood to shake her hand, Ruth grinned from ear to ear. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Is it true you’re a sheikh?”

  “Yes,” Zain said. “But today I am only a new father.”

  Madison couldn’t be more proud of that fact, or the way he pressed a soft kiss on his daughter’s forehead. She was definitely going to be a daddy’s girl.

  The nurse lumbered over to the bed and took Madison’s baby boy out of her arms, much to her dismay. “Where are you going with him?”

  Ruth patted Madison’s arm. “Don’t worry, Mommy. He’ll just be gone for a little while. Now that he and his sister have warmed up a bit, it’s time for their first bath.”

  She was a little disappointed to give up her children so soon after their birth, but it would allow her and Zain some time to reach one important decision.

  After Ruth carted off the twins, Madison scooted over, gritted her teeth against the lingering pain of childbirth and patted the space beside her. “Come over here, you sexy sheikh.”

  He turned his smile on her. “Is it not too soon to consider that?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I just gave birth to the equivalent of two five-pound bowling balls, so what do you think?”

  “You have a point.” He kicked off his Italian loafers, climbed onto the narrow bed and folded her into his arms.

  “We need to decide on their names,” she said as she rested her cheek against his chest. “We can’t just refer to them as ‘He’ and ‘She’ Mehdi indefinitely, although it is kind of catchy.”

  “How do you feel about Cala for our daughter?” he asked
.

  Zain had never suggested that name before now, but Madison supposed his trip home to mourn after the end of a young woman and her unborn child’s life had somehow influenced his choice. “It’s perfect. I’m sure your mother would have loved having a granddaughter named after her.”

  “Then we shall call her that. And our son?”

  She lifted her head and smiled. “Why not settle for what we’ve been calling him the past five months?” The nickname they’d given him the day they’d learned the babies’ genders during the ultrasound.

  He grinned. “Joe?”

  “Short for Joseph, which just happens to be my great-great-grandfather’s name.”

  “Joseph it is.”

  Now that they had covered that all-important decision, she needed to address one more. “Do you have any regrets about giving up the crown and leaving Bajul?”

  “Only one. We never made love on the rooftop.”

  She elbowed his ribs. “I’m serious.”

  “I have a beautiful wife and two perfect children. How could I possibly regret that?” His expression turned somber. “Do you regret that you have put your career on hold for me?”

  Something Madison had sworn she would never do, but then she’s never imagined loving a man this much. And during the last conversation with her mother, she’d actually admitted it. “I haven’t put my career completely on hold. I’ll be doing some preliminary consulting for the senator’s campaign the first of the year.”

  “And you do not mind traveling to Bajul in a few months and staying for a time?”

  “As long as we wait until my parents come for their visit, I’m more than game. Besides, I’ve told you that I feel it’s important that our children know their culture, and you still have important work to do on your conservation plans.”

  He planted a quick kiss on her lips. “Good. While we’re there, we will return to the lake and relive our first experience.”

  The experience that had brought them to this day. This new life. This incredible love. “That sounds like a plan. You bring Malik’s truck, and I’ll bring my overactive ovary. We might even get lucky a second time.”

  “I cannot imagine feeling any luckier than I do now.”

  “Neither can I.”

  When the nurse returned their children to their waiting arms, completing the family they had made, Madison and Zain settled into comfortable silence, as they’d done so many times since they had taken that giant leap of faith, and landed in the middle of that sometimes treacherous territory known as love.

  Madison felt truly blessed, and it was all because of one magical mountain, and one equally magical man. A man who might not be the king of his country, but he was—and always would be—the king of her heart.

  *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from A Conflict of Interest by Barbara Dunlop

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  One

  It was inauguration night in Washington, D.C., and Cara Cranshaw had to choose between her president and her lover. One strode triumphantly though the arches of the Worthington Hotel ballroom to the uplifting strains of “Hail to the Chief” and the cheers of eight hundred well-wishers. The other stared boldly at her from across the ballroom, a shock of unruly, dark hair curling across his forehead, his bow tie slightly askew and his eyes telegraphing the message that he wanted her naked.

  For the moment, it was investigative reporter Max Gray who held her attention. Despite her resolve to turn the page on their relationship, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his, nor could she stop her hand from reflexively moving to her abdomen. But Max was off-limits now that Ted Morrow had been sworn in as president.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the master of ceremonies above the music and enthusiastic clapping that was spreading like a wave across the hall. “The President of the United States.” His voice rang out from the microphone onstage at the opposite end of the massive, high-ceilinged room.

  The cheers grew to a roar. The band’s volume increased. And the crowd shifted, separating to form a pathway in front of President Morrow. Cara automatically moved with them, but she still couldn’t tear her gaze from Max as he took a few steps backward on the other side of the divide.

  She schooled her features, struggling to transmit her resolve. She couldn’t let him see the confusion and alarm she’d been feeling since her doctor’s visit that afternoon. Resolve, she ruthlessly reminded herself, not hesitation and definitely not fear.

  “He’s running late.” Sandy Haniford’s shout sounded shrill in Cara’s ear.

  Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House press office, where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the president’s entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison to the American News Service event.

  “Only by a few minutes,” Cara shouted back, her eyes still on Max.

  Resolve, she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn’t change her job tonight. And it didn’t alter her responsibility to the president.

  “I was hoping the president would get here a little early,” Sandy continued, her voice still raised. “We have a last-minute addition to the speaker lineup.”

  Cara twisted her head; Sandy’s words had instantly broken Max’s psychological hold on her. “Come again?”

  “Another speaker.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “It’s done,” said Sandy.

  “Well, undo it.”

  The speakers, especially those at the events hosted by organizations less than friendly to the president, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but the cable network’s ball was a tradition, so he’d had no choice but to show up.

  It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington ballroom. He would arrive at ten forty-five—well, ten fifty-two as it turned out—then he was to leave at eleven-fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the president had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy. “Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?” Sarcasm came through her raised voice.

  “You should have solved the problem before it came to that.” Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.

  “Don’t you think I tried?”

  “Obviously not hard enough. How could you give them permission to add a new speaker?”

  “They didn’t ask,” Sandy pointed out with a frown. “Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops.”

  Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn’t get to dictate to the president.

  Cara couldn’t help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at ANS’s rival, National Cable News, he was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn’t ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.

  Cara pressed a speed-
dial button for her boss.

  It rang but then went to voice mail.

  She hung up and tried again.

  She could see that the president had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smartly dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designer fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen crystal chandeliers.

  The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten, returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the president before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the president would have one dance with the female chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS board members before taking his leave.

  Cara gave up on her cell phone and started making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty-fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn’t a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.

  Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war-torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn’t want a person up onstage, that person was not getting up onstage. Too bad she couldn’t enlist his help and would have to rely on her own wits.

  She chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the packed crowd.

  Graham Boyle was waxing poetic about ANS’s role in the presidential election. He’d taken a couple of jabs at President Morrow’s alma mater and its unfortunate choice of mascot given current relations with Brazil. But that was all fair game.

  Cara wished she was taller. At five foot five, she couldn’t see the stairs to know if Mitch was waiting to go up on the right-hand side. She regretted having gone for the comfortable two-inch heels instead of the flashy four-inch spikes that her sister, Gillian, had given her for Christmas. She could have used the height.