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      He shouldn’t feel this towards Viv’s son. The son whose father was unknown—who surely couldn’t be him.

      Surely she would have told him if she’d even suspected it? He couldn’t identify what “this” was, but it was too powerful, too…

      “What are you doing here?”

      His heart stopped as if with a close-range bullet.

      Breathless, pulseless, he jerked his head up, around.

      And there she was. Viv. In another camouflaging get-up, fresh out of a shower or a bath, hair darkened with wetness, flushed, fragrant even at this distance. And mad as hell that he was here.

      It only sent his rioting emotions screeching. How he hungered for her. And now he knew how much she’d suffered, how much she’d endured, what she’d triumphed over, how much he’d mistreated her, the hunger was gnawing at him body and soul. And then there was Sam…

      Olivia Gates has always pursued many passions. But the time came when she had to set up a ‘passion priority’—to give her top one her all—and writing won. Hands down.

      She is most fulfilled when she is creating worlds and conflicts for her characters and then exploring and untangling them bit by bit, sharing her protagonists’ every heartache and hope and heart-pounding doubt until she leads them to their indisputably earned and glorious happy ending.

      When she’s not writing she is a doctor, a wife to her own alpha male, and a mother to one brilliant girl and one demanding Angora cat. Please visit Olivia at www.oliviagates.com

       Recent titles by the same author:

      DESERT PRINCE, EXPECTANT MOTHER

      THE SHEIKH SURGEON’S PROPOSAL

      THE DESERT SURGEON’S SECRET SON

      BY

      OLIVIA GATES

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      To my editor, Sheila Hodgson, for doing it yet again—getting the best book out of me.

      To my mother, husband and daughter, for the support, enthusiasm and inspiration. Can’t do it without you all.

      CHAPTER ONE

      SHEIKH GHALEB BEN ABBAS ben Najeeb Aal Omraan fought down another wave of reluctance.

      He really needed to get over it. Admit it. That he couldn’t be everywhere, do everything himself.

      He’d long put being a surgeon and the driving force behind the advancement of Omraania’s health system first, but his duties as heir to the throne weren’t going anywhere. In fact, his father was pressuring him to be more proactive in matters of state. He’d chosen to press harder during the last months, at a time when his new position as Head of Surgery at Jobail Advanced Medical Center, his crowning project, was threatening to overwhelm his schedule.

      He’d resisted the need for someone to share that vital position, the one closest to his heart, from day one. It had taken almost making a fatal mistake during a kind of surgery he’d done in his sleep for years to make him admit he might have been pushing himself too far. Adnan had jumped on the admission, had suggested a replacement head of surgery, amending his suggestion to co-Head at Ghaleb’s point-blank refusal. One to have until Ghaleb put matters in order and decided whether to make the position permanent, with the “co” in front of “Head” or without it.

      Adnan had put out the ad for the position throughout the medical world, and applications had swamped him. Ghaleb’s requirements had easily eliminated most of the applicants and Adnan had flown to the States to interview the few remaining candidates. His choice was arriving today. Right now, actually.

      Ghaleb changed direction, heading to Adnan’s office instead of to his own private elevator to the surgical floor. He caught him at the door.

      Adnan swung around. “I’m going to receive your new cohead of surgery, Somow’wak, show her around. Would you like me to schedule a meeting after you finish your list?”

      Her? He had nothing against having a female co-head, but it was a matter of statistics that there were more successful male surgeons.

      “Don’t bother, Adnan,” Ghaleb said as he bypassed him, had him almost running to keep up with him as he cleared his personal territory encompassing most of the top floor and swept through the workstations of his immediate staff. “The place to meet my co-head of surgery is in the OR. She doesn’t have to impress me with her character, just her surgical skills.”

      “I’m confident she will, Somow’wak. She’s the only applicant who answered all your requirements. Her résumé is astounding.”

      “If she answered all my requirements, Adnan, her résumé might be too astounding to be true.”

      “I truly don’t think so, but in the unfortunate situation she doesn’t live up to the promise—”

      “I’ll hold you responsible for wasting my time.”

      Adnan looked mortified. Ghaleb felt contrite at once. Adnan was his right hand and advisor. His friend. And he had few friends. None really. His position and vocation precluded intimacy, with its demands of time and trust, with its inherent dangers. He’d never been free to choose friends, to risk making errors of judgment. To answer the clamoring of his heart…

      Apart from his father, he had only two allies he’d trust with his life. Adnan was one of them. He shouldn’t pummel him with his frustration at being forced to admit his limitations.

      He gave Adnan’s shoulder an apologetic squeeze. “I trust your judgment, Adnan, more than my own sometimes. That’s why I let you make this decision for me. But it’s no big deal if she doesn’t live up to her promise. You’ll just renew your search. I can hold out a few more months until you find a replacement.”

      “That’s what worries me, Somow’wak, not that I wouldn’t have lived up to your faith, but that you can’t hold out under the same strain. You’ve been juggling responsibilities for too many years that would bring half a dozen men to their knees in months.”

      “We won’t have this debate again, Adnan. I’m taking the most major step in managing these responsibilities, but I’m not going to settle for anything but the best person for the job. Better no help than inferior help.”

      Adnan knew this was where he fell silent. Ghaleb breathed in relief. He’d ended another confrontation with him. With himself.

      He was admitting he’d only postponed it, was about to exit the corridor connecting his inner domain to the floor’s reception hall when the momentum of his strides and thoughts faltered, died.

      Four of Adnan’s aides appeared at the far end of the glass-faceted, soaring-roofed space and walked toward them. They surrounded a statuesque woman in the formation of flanking an honored guest.

      Everything

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