LITMIR.BIZ

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is even the smallest sliver of a chance we can save Paddington’s from this ridiculous move out to Riverside!”

      “You know, you have a lovely voice, Alistair. Is that what drew you to him, Claire? The voice?” The more the group stared at her, the more tongue-tied she became. “Can’t I just send out a memo or something?”

      Rosie Hobbes—still glowing from her recent engagement to Dr. Marchetti—turned her flame-haired bob and made another stab at extracting information from Robyn. “You don’t need to give us a blow-by-blow account of what happened with His Excellency, but the key details would be useful.”

      “You mean Idris?” Robyn crinkled her nose. Rosie’s fiancé was, after all, a duke and no one went around calling him His Excellency.

      A general “ooh” that said, Look who’s on first-name terms with the Sheikh, circled Robyn like an ever-tightening snare.

      “Just because most of you lot got swept away with spring fever and are all loved up doesn’t mean I can’t carry on with a professional relationship!” She could’ve added in a bit about the pregnancy chair having done far too much work this year, but no need to turn herself into a human voodoo doll. Wide eyes continued to stare expectantly. Provocatively. Annoyingly.

      “It’s August. Cupid’s month off. I have it on good authority.”

      “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Alistair teased, giving his fiancée, Claire, a little nuzzle as he did.

      It wasn’t as if Idris was all gorgeous and irresistibly off-limits or anything.

      “If you’re on a first-name basis,” Rosie chimed in, “he’s obviously keen for you to do the surgery.”

      “He is,” she conceded. “But when I told him I would only do the surgery here at the Castle, Idris said he would only agree if I went to Da’har.”

      His name felt both foreign and familiar when she spoke it. A sweetness upon her tongue. Not a sensation to get used to. “Besides, a first-name basis doesn’t mean I have to fly out and see his magical desert kingdom by moonlight, okay?”

      Maybe Alistair had a point.

      “Robyn!” Rosie persisted. “You don’t want to move out to the business park of so-called ‘Riverside’ any more than the rest of us do. Paddington’s must stay open. We just want to know if there’s anything we can do to help you.”

      Apart from dropping the playground teasing about Idris, nothing sprang to mind. This was solidly on her shoulders. Unfortunately.

      “No, not really. I should probably speak with Victoria about his proposal.”

      “Your chic Sheikh has asked you to marry him?” Matthew teased, receiving a jab in the ribs from Claire as Robyn’s mouth screwed up into an “eww” face.

      “Is it possible that he’s not a chic sheikh?” Rosie asked with false innocence.

      “Or that he’s not really a sheikh?” Victoria posited, another biscuit disappearing from the ever-diminishing pile.

      “Maybe the chic Sheikh already has five wives and our Robyn really deserves to be wife number one.”

      There was a collective nod of heads.

      “Get your heads out of the registry office! The lot of you!”

      Too cranky.

      She opened her mouth to fix the mood-change grenade she’d tossed into the midst of the group, gaped like a fish for a moment, then dove in. “He obviously loved his late wife very much and from his...less than warm demeanor, I can happily inform you he will be bending his knee and asking me to marry him in—oh, just about never.” She grabbed a biscuit and ran her finger along the edge before looking up at her peers. “And don’t look so surprised!”

      Marriage had been on the cards once, but after her epic fail in the baby-making department? Never again. She needed to contain the situation. Set them straight.

      “Don’t make fun of my chic Sheikh.”

      The eyes trained on her collectively widened.

      That probably wasn’t the best way to handle it, Robyn.

      “Gah!” Robyn cried, zigzagging her index finger around the group with her stern expression on full tilt. “All of you are very, very silly.”

      And she would miss them heart and soul if the hospital were to close. Which only meant one thing.

      She’d need to buy a suitcase.

      She shushed their teasings and proddings, then put on her I’m-the-head-of-department face.

      “Idris wants me to go to Da’har for a few days to get to know his daughter better.” She looked around the group to garner support that she shouldn’t leave Paddington’s.

      “So go!” Dominic urged. “I’m pretty certain I speak for Victoria when I say this. If it’ll help Paddington’s—go.”

      “Dominic,” she pleaded, “this is your bag, not mine. I’m bound to make an idiot out of myself or put my foot in it.”

      “Is not going worth compromising the Castle’s future?” Alistair’s question hushed the group collectively.

      “Not fair! You all know how much this place means to me.” Paddington’s was her heartbeat. Her lifesaver. The job offer to work here had come the same week she’d had her insides removed and her relationship had imploded. It had literally pulled her out of the dark and into a new world of possibility. Of hope that, even though she would never be a mother, she could dedicate her life to helping other women’s children survive. Thirteen years later she was still here—but soon Paddington’s might not be.

      Her eyes moved from surgeon to doctor to paramedic to nurse. Each of them an unwitting role-player in her fight to survive her darkest days. She brightened as an idea struck. “Why don’t you go to Da’har, Dominic? I already said I’d go to the theater with him. I’ll meet Amira there. I’m sure we’ll hit it off just fine and then, once the show’s over, I’ll let His Excellency know it’ll be you and not me who’ll be joining him in Da’har.”

      “What?” Rebecca barked through a mouthful of ginger biscuit. “You’re going on a sheikh date?”

      “Yeah, right. Just like the genie is going to pop out of the bottle and make all my wishes come true when I—uh—rub it.”

      “Hold on a minute.” Dominic raised his hand before giving Robyn’s shoulder a gentle rub. “As fun as all of this is, Robyn, you are the Castle’s head of surgery, not to mention the doctor who would be performing Amira’s treatment. You should not only be going to the theater on your sheikh date, but you should be preparing yourself to eat dates with the Sheikh from afar in Da’har.”

      “I thought you said we were done rhyming.” Robyn grabbed a biscuit and took a defiant chomp. Hopefully it would help mask the jitters launching a Mach-force invasion on her nervous system.

      “We are. And you are done prevaricating. Get out the Factor Fifty, my friend. You’re going to Da’har.” Dominic grinned.

      She widened her eyes to appeal to her fellow surgeons. “Being in the operating theater? Piece of cake. I’ve already thought of an amazing team, and on the cab ride back I checked with one of the specialists at Boston, and he’s already looking into flights. It would take his research global. The whole publicity thing? That’s your terrain, Dom. You’re the one who can get it all over TV.”

      “And you’re the one who can do the surgery that will get Paddington’s the right kind of press. But only if you go to Da’har and win over the Sheikh!” He finished with a persuasive smile all the while fixing her with his bright blue eyes, and for just a moment she could see why Victoria had fallen for him. Not that she thought of anyone, ever, in that way anymore. Except that a certain pair of inky black eyes flashed into her mental

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