The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum by Meredith Webber Page A

delighted in all of this; his skin heated—that thin line between attraction and lust dangerously close.
    Thankfully, she moved, just slightly, in his arms, then pushed away, her glasses dropping onto the floor of the car, her hands rubbing furiously at her face, dashing away remaining tears, reddening her cheeks, tousling her hair, so when she turned to him she could only shake her head.
    ‘I’m sorry, I truly am! I had no idea all that emotion was going to come pouring out! I didn’t even know it was in there! And, believe me, I don’t do tears—not like that. Blame the hormones.’
    She was acutely embarrassed and angry with herself as well, that much was clear to see, but…
    ‘I don’t think there’s anything to be ashamed of in emotion,’ he said quietly. ‘We all feel it, so can’t we be allowed to show it?’
    He won a smile—not the reaction he’d expected but one he enjoyed nonetheless.
    ‘Do you?’ she teased, and he must have looked bemused because she clarified the question for him. ‘Show emotion?’
    ‘Me?’ he said, but he had to smile, teasing her back. ‘But I’m a highness, remember. It wouldn’t do for me to be weeping all over the place.’
    He touched her lightly on the cheek.
    ‘Seriously, though, those tears probably needed to come out, hormones or not. It’s all very well to carry on working as if nothing has happened in your life, but losing your brother, your last living relative, that must have brought terrible pain.’
    She turned away from him—from his touch?—and…
    A memory stirred, a recent memory that had been lost in his emotional reaction to holding her in his arms.
    ‘You said the child…’
    How to put it?
    ‘The child you’re carrying—a relation—a niece or nephew? It’s not your child?’
    For a moment he thought she was going to ignore him, then she rested her hands on the bulge of her belly, smoothing the material of her tunic over it.
    Hesitating…
    Debating whether to tell him something.
    ‘The baby is Bill and Oliver’s,’ she said quietly. ‘I think I told you how they saved my sanity and kept me going when our parents died. They were my only family, and I loved them both. For years they’d talked of having a child, of getting a donor egg, finding a woman willing to be a surrogate, but every time they discussed it with me—Bill was a lawyer and Oliver’s in finance so I was the best person to talk to about it—I felt this twinge deep inside me. It took me a while to figure it out, but in the end I knew it was something I could do for them—that I wanted to do for them.’
    ‘To carry their child?’
    She looked up at him, her eyes clear now, and smiled, a smile so full of loving memories he felt his heart tear.
    ‘It made sense, you see. Using my egg would be as close to Bill’s DNA as we could get, so Oliver donated sperm and that was it.’
    ‘You make it sound so normal, but carrying someone else’s child? Giving over nine months of your life to provide your brother and his partner with a baby? Was it legal? And personally did it not bother you in the slightest? Did it not bother the two men that you wanted to do it?’
    She shook her head, the dark red hair, which had come out of its knot as she’d cried, now tumbling about her shoulders.
    ‘The legal side was okay. Surrogacy is legal as long as it’s not for profit. And of course it bothered Bill and Oliver, especially when the bloke I was going out with at the time was so horrified he dropped me like a hot potato. But once they knew I was serious, they were delighted, and just so excited. They made me see a counsellor first, and they discussed it with the same psychologist, but eventually it all fell into place.’
    Liz smiled as she remembered the joyous delight of that time—a sad smile maybe, but the pair had been beside themselves.
    ‘They went nuts,’ she told Khalifa. ‘They made recordings of their voices singing lullabies and talking—recordings I could play