CHAPTER EIGHT
THE PARTY WAS a lavish event held in Qasr Jameel’s sumptuous ballroom. Designed in the style of an Arabian palace, the vast space was a sea of pink marble, gleaming gold leaf and an exquisite mosaic-tiled floor. Women wearing extravagant evening gowns and men in dinner suits mingled with sheikhs in traditional robes and keffiyeh. White-jacketed waiters threaded through the groups of guests to serve champagne cocktails, soft drinks and exquisite canapés that looked far too pretty to eat.
During her brief marriage to David, Orla had accompanied him to a few high-class social functions. His father was a peer and the family seat in Gloucestershire was an imposing mansion where Lady Keegan hosted elegant soirées. Orla had felt out of place at those events and her confidence had been further undermined by David’s constant criticism of her. He had invariably found fault with her clothes, and if she dared to wear make-up he’d told her she looked like a tart.
Her dress, which she’d bought from a boutique in Qasr Jameel’s shopping complex was elegant without being showy. The last thing she hoped to do was draw attention to herself, which had been Torre’s accusation. She glanced at him standing nearby. Dressed in a black tuxedo and white silk shirt, he was simply devastating. His head was turned slightly away from her while he chatted to another guest and Orla was able to study his chiselled profile.
Predictably her heart skipped a beat. She was growing used to the effect he had on her and she had no control over the molten heat that swept through her veins as she remembered how the stubble on his chin had felt rough against her lips when she’d pressed kisses along his jaw on her way to his mouth. She had been shocked by her wanton behaviour last night. And she’d been even more stunned before the party this evening when Torre had apologised for the horrible things he’d said to her. She could not figure him out and that bothered her. He bothered her. She wanted to hate him and the fact that she didn’t showed just what a fool she was, she thought bleakly.
Perhaps he sensed her gaze on him for he turned his head towards her and she quickly looked away, but not before she’d seen a gleam in his eyes of amusement and something harder to define that made her feel as though a light had been switched on inside her.
‘Orla, I would like you to meet Sheikh Bin al Rashid,’ Torre said. ‘Orla is my secretarial assistant,’ he told the man wearing flowing robes, who was standing beside him.
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Orla murmured as she shook hands with the Sheikh. ‘I understand that you are planning to build a similar structure to Qasr Jameel in Bahrain.’
‘Indeed. I believe a landmark building such as the one that ARC have delivered here in Dubai would be a draw for businesses and tourists to my country. But I can foresee a problem with the proposed development. The site where I hope the new tower will be constructed is a relatively small area of land in the centre of a busy city and surrounded by other buildings. The construction programme would need to be completed in a short time frame to minimise disruption.’
Orla nodded. ‘It was a similar situation here in Dubai. Qasr Jameel stands between other buildings and it was important that the tower be constructed as quickly but also as safely as possible. The civil engineers at ARC used a method of construction called “top down”, which allowed the first thirty storeys of the concrete core of the tower to be built before excavation of the basement had been completed. In that way the construction programme and therefore the cost was significantly reduced.’
Warming to her theme, she continued, ‘The core of the tower was constructed using a technique known as “slip forming”—where concrete is poured into a continuously moving mould called a formwork, which slides up the building.’
She heard Torre make a muffled sound and realised that she had become carried away with her explanation. On the flight to Dubai early that morning he had given her material to read about ARC’s mission statement and business strategies. There had also been a file containing detailed engineering notes about how Qasr Jameel had been constructed.
‘There is no need for you to read that particular file. I don’t suppose you will find civil engineering processes interesting,’ Torre had told her.
In fact, Orla had been fascinated and she’d spent most of the flight absorbed in studying technical papers. She was surprised and pleased by how much she remembered from when she had been studying for her degree. But she had not finished her qualifications and Torre was one of the leading structural engineers in the world.
‘I’m sure you can explain the construction process of Qasr Jameel much better than I can,’ she said to him in an embarrassed voice.
His expression was unreadable. ‘Your explanation was excellent. I am sure that Sheikh Bin al Rashid would like to hear more—as would I,’ he murmured.
‘Oh.’ She stared at him, wondering if he was making fun of her.
‘I am curious to know how it is possible to control the sway of very tall buildings in strong wind,’ the Sheikh said.
‘That is certainly an important element of the structural design. All tall buildings will move in strong gusts of wind, but it is vital that the occupiers of the building are not affected. Methods to combat the sway effect are by damping the oscillations and also stiffening the central core.’ Orla’s enthusiasm for the subject replaced her diffidence and she spent several minutes expounding on the building methods used in the construction of skyscrapers.
When she had finished, Sheikh Rashid turned to Torre. ‘I confess I am surprised and impressed that your secretarial assistant has such an in-depth knowledge of building processes.’
‘Yes, Orla is full of surprises,’ Torre replied drily. His thoughtful gaze rested on her face. Fortunately, at that moment a prince from Dubai’s royal family stepped onto the dais at one end of the ballroom and made a speech before declaring Qasr Jameel officially open. Orla hoped to use the distraction to slip away from Torre and lose herself in the throng of guests, but he put his hand on her arm and instructed her to stay next to him.
‘I may need you,’ he drawled when she looked mulish. He did not specify in what way he might need her and she thought it wiser not to ask when she saw a predatory gleam in his eyes that made her heart thump.
More speeches and a media conference followed. In the press room, photographers wanted pictures of Torre and the team of ARC engineers who had worked on the Qasr Jameel tower. ‘I am only your temporary assistant, and there’s no need for me to be in the photos,’ Orla pointed out when Torre ordered her to stand beside him while camera flashes went off. But somehow she found herself crushed close to his side in the group photo.
Worse was to come when he led her onto the dance floor and drew her into his arms. Through her dress she could feel the muscles and sinews of his powerful thighs pressed up against her, and the hard ridge of his arousal pressing into the cradle of her pelvis brought a betraying stain of colour to her cheeks. There was a brief lull in the music before the next tune started and she gave a yawn that was not entirely fake.
It was only two days ago since she had left London for Amalfi, feeling apprehensive at the prospect of meeting Torre again. With good reason, as it had turned out. Her friendship with Jules had changed for ever, and she had made a pact with the devil when she had signed a contract that gave Torre control over her life for the next two months.
‘I’m afraid you will have to manage without me for the rest of the party.’ She yawned again. ‘I think jet-lag must be catching up with me. I’m sure you won’t be lonely for long. The blonde in the almost-see-through dress who you were flirting with earlier has been sending me evil stares while we’ve been dancing,’ she added waspishly.
Torre grinned and tightened his arm around her waist when she attempted to move away from him. ‘The green flecks in your eyes are more noticeable when you are jealous, gattina mia,’ he murmured.
‘I’m not jealous. And I’m not your kitten.’
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br /> His eyes gleamed like molten silver. ‘I have your claw marks on my back to prove it.’
She felt warmth spread over her face and an even fierier heat swept through her and settled right there between her legs where last night he had caressed her with his clever fingers, arousing her to a fever pitch of desire. When he’d moved over her and possessed her with his hard, thrusting body she remembered that she had raked her nails down his shoulders in the ecstasy of her mind-blowing orgasm.
She did not dare look at Torre as he steered her across the ballroom and into an elevator that whisked them up to the Presidential Suite. As soon as she was inside the suite, Orla kicked off her high-heeled shoes and gave a sigh of relief as she curled her toes into the thick carpet. She intended to go straight to her bedroom, which was on the other side of the main lounge from the master bedroom, but Torre’s voice made her halt halfway across the room.
‘I find it hard to believe that you gained in-depth knowledge of the complex structural engineering challenges involved in the construction of super-tall towers when you worked as a secretary at a small building company,’ he said as he walked over to the bar. ‘Would you like a drink?’ When she shook her head, he continued. ‘I checked, and Mayall’s main line of business is coastal defence projects, not skyscrapers.’ He poured himself a glass of whisky and took a long sip before he strolled over to where she was edging past the sofa, hoping to escape down the hallway that led to her bedroom.
‘I am intrigued by you, Orla,’ he murmured. He lifted his hand and brushed a few loose tendrils of hair back from her face. She stiffened when his fingers brushed very lightly over her scar. ‘Just when I think I know who you are, you surprise me.’
‘You don’t know me at all.’ She did not understand why it made her feel so sad. Sometimes she wondered if anyone had ever really known her, or had even bothered to try. Certainly not her mother, or the man she had spent ten hellish months married to. ‘And what you think you know about me is wrong,’ she told Torre.
‘So enlighten me,’ he invited softly. ‘Explain to me how I might have misjudged you?’
‘I didn’t have an ulterior motive when I made love with you eight years ago.’ She struggled to swallow past the sudden constriction in her throat. ‘I know what my mother was,’ she said flatly. ‘She married your father for his money and I understand why you despised her. But when I lost my virginity to you I thought...’ She shook her head, the lump of misery inside her seeming to expand and fill her lungs so that she found it hard to breathe. ‘I was young with a head full of romantic dreams. Back then I still believed that princes existed.’
She glanced up at him and noticed an odd expression in his eyes that made her heart thump.
‘Where did you go that morning? I followed you downstairs a few minutes after you ran out of my room but you had disappeared.’
‘Did you think I would stick around after you’d called me a gold-digger? I caught a bus back to Villa Romano. My mother’s friends had arranged for a taxi to take them to the airport, and I left with them.’
Torre let out a heavy sigh. ‘My father had mentioned that you worked in a bar in London. Did you go back to your job?’
‘It was only a part-time job so that I could earn some money when I started university.’ Orla felt a little spurt of satisfaction when he looked surprised.
‘I didn’t know that you had a degree. It’s not on your CV. What subject is it in?’
‘I studied civil engineering for three and a half years.’
He stared at her—she guessed it was probably the first time that Torre Romano had been rendered speechless—and then gave a low laugh. ‘That explains how you were able to do such a good job when you spoke to Sheikh Bin al Rashid. Thanks to you, he is so impressed by the quality of staff that work for ARC that the company is a serious contender to win the commission to build a skyscraper in Bahrain. But I don’t understand why you did not apply for a civil engineering job at ARC, or why you worked in a secretarial role at Mayall’s.’
‘I left university without graduating,’ she muttered.
‘Why?’ He frowned when she did not reply. ‘Many students become stressed about sitting exams. Is that why you left? I remember feeling under pressure when I was writing a thesis for my research doctorate in structural design.’
‘No, it wasn’t exam pressure. I dropped out of university when I got married.’ She bit her lip, remembering how David had taken control of her life.
Torre’s expression hardened. ‘You thought you would not need qualifications or a career because your wealthy husband would keep you?’
‘No, it wasn’t that. I deeply regret that I didn’t graduate. David persuaded me to postpone finishing my degree because he travelled abroad a lot to play cricket and he wanted me with him. I always intended to go back to university but after my marriage ended I desperately needed to earn money. My mother was ill—’ She broke off abruptly, aware that bringing Kimberly into the conversation would not win her any sympathy from Torre.
‘Despite what you might have read in the tabloids, I did not receive any kind of maintenance pay-out from David. I had to wait for two years before he agreed to a divorce and I wanted nothing from him apart from my freedom.’ Her voice shook. ‘I learned that to be free to live my life on my terms was—is—more valuable than anything.’
* * *
Torre did not know how to deal with the riot of his emotions. Ever since he had been told by a nanny when he was six years old that he must not cry at his mother’s funeral because he might upset his father, he had kept his feelings locked deep inside him. Life was much easier without the highs and lows of riding an emotional roller-coaster and allowed him to focus on his career. He enjoyed engineering because it required him to use the analytical side of his brain to solve complex problems. The rules of maths and physics were far easier to understand than unstructured, messy emotions that too often ignored common sense.
Only once since he was a young boy had he listened to his heart rather than his head. He’d been kicking his heels, bored out of his skull at that damned party following his father’s ill-conceived wedding to a woman who had made a career out of marrying and divorcing rich men.
Torre had been about to leave; full of self-righteous satisfaction that he would never be led by his libido like Giuseppe. He’d been halfway out of the door when something had made him turn his head and he’d looked across the room. As he’d stared at Orla his only thought had been that he had to have her, had to possess her impossible beauty, her creamy skin and pale red hair, those eyes that turned from hazel to green when she was aroused and her mouth that promised myriad sensual delights.
His tight grip on his self-control had unravelled and been replaced with an urgent need he had never felt for any other woman. That was what had appalled him most the next morning when he’d discovered Orla’s identity. Like mother, like daughter, a voice in his head had mocked him, and he’d been unable to think of one reason why Orla would have given her virginity to him—other than because she’d thought he would pay for the privilege by putting a ring on her finger.
Now, as he watched her expression become wary, he acknowledged that he had directed his anger with himself onto Orla rather than have to admit that he’d failed to live up to his high ideals. And he’d been horrified by the idea that he needed her. Need suggested a lack of control, but without iron self-control he would have wept at his mamma’s funeral instead of blinking back his tears.
Torre pictured himself at six years old. He had been very brave, his father had praised him afterwards when they had returned to the house and left his mamma alone in the graveyard where she had been buried. It had been hard not to cry when he’d thought of her lying in a box beneath the earth, but he’d wanted to please his father and so he had dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands until they’d made little crescents on his skin to remind himself that
brave boys didn’t cry.
He forced his mind away from the painful memories of his childhood. His thoughts turned to the morning after the first time he’d slept with Orla, when she had woken in his bed at the old farmhouse in Ravello. He had watched her golden eyelashes sweep upwards and a soft pink stain had spread over her face when she’d stared at him lying beside her. He’d touched her breasts and seen her eyes change from hazel to olive-green as she’d felt his excitement. Desire had run hot and urgent through his veins. But it had been more than that. He’d experienced a sense of completeness that he’d never felt with any other woman and he’d known that one night with her had not been enough. He’d wanted more, he’d wanted her—
For ever. The thought had slipped into his mind and refused to budge.
The strident ring of her phone had been an unwelcome intrusion and he’d struggled to hide his frustration when she’d sat up and reached for her handbag on the bedside table. ‘It’s probably Kimberly. I’ll have to take the call,’ Orla told him. He’d remembered then that she’d said she was one of his new stepmother’s retinue of assistants.
In her haste to find her phone, Orla had tipped the contents of her bag onto the bed. Torre remembered his incomprehension when he’d seen his mother’s emerald earrings sparkling on the sheet.
‘Why were these in your bag?’
She’d looked at the earrings and shrugged. ‘I was worried I would lose them at the party so I put them in my bag.’
‘But how did you come to have them in your possession?’
She seemed puzzled by his curt tone. ‘My mother lent them to me. Giuseppe gave Kimberly several pieces of jewellery as wedding presents, and she said I could borrow the earrings to wear with the dress that I borrowed from her.’
‘Kimberly Connaught is your mother?’ A lead weight had dropped into the pit of his stomach. The sickening realisation that he was as much of a fool as his father had evoked bitter shame in his heart. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He’d laughed hollowly at himself. ‘Stupid question.’
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