by Trish Morey
Stolen by the Sheikh
Trish Morey
CHAPTER ONE
SHE knew it without turning.
The sudden flush to her skin, the disconcerting prickle that crawled the length of her spine, told Sapphy Clemenger that whoever had just entered Bacelli’s Milan salon was no ordinary customer. In an atmosphere that suddenly felt superheated, instinct screamed that no way was this one of her usual clients rushing in five minutes before evening closing time to search for the perfect outfit to woo her husband, or even her lover.
Her muscles strained and tensed, her senses heightening so much that even the hushed click of the cushioned door closing registered to her senses as significant.
Battling the sensations that continued to skitter up and down her back, she blinked away the weariness bequeathed by her 3 a.m. mornings leading up to this week’s successful fashion-week show and swivelled right, a smile of welcome at the ready, only to have her eyes jag on blackness.
His power hit her first.
Like a rush of electricity she felt his impact surge over her. He was a wall of power, a wall of authority.
Black roll-neck sweater, well-cut black jeans topping hand-stitched black boots. Even his hair glossed blue-black in the beam from the ceiling’s downlights.
But it was his eyes that reached across the room and snared her. Dark and fathomless with a glint that came and went like a shooting star in the night sky, their midnight quality reeled her in.
Was it possible to feel your pupils dilate?Yes , if what she’d just experienced was any indication. And given the sensory heights she seemed to be suddenly subjected to in the last few seconds, maybe she shouldn’t be surprised.
He said nothing as he moved towards her, never taking his eyes from her face and leaving no doubt in her mind that he hadn’t just stumbled upon the salon.
He’d come to see her.
She shivered, instantly regretting letting Carla, the salon’s permanent assistant, go home early. This was no time to be alone. But still she didn’t move. Not that she was certain she could. It was all she could do to swallow as he devoured the distance between them.
‘Buona sera,’he said, his voice rich and deep and containing so many influences she couldn’t place his accent. ‘Or would you prefer I speak English?’
His lips curved slightly yet lacked any real warmth in a face that seemed all harsh angles and planes. She felt her eyes narrow. So he knew she wasn’t Italian. What else did he know about her?And why?
‘Thank you. English will be fine.’ Her voice sounded remarkably steadier than she felt as she readily accepted his offer to use her native tongue. After four years working in Italy away from her Australian homeland, she spoke fluent Italian, but here, in this man’s presence, she didn’t trust herself to think and speak her adopted language without tripping over her tongue. ‘How can I help you?’
‘You are, I presume, Sapphire Clemenger? The designer?’
Still she couldn’t place his accent. It held touches of English, a trace of American and more besides. He wasn’t Italian, of that she was sure, even though his dark features could have passed for Mediterranean. Yet he was too tall, too broad in the shoulders.
And much, much too close.
The heat came off him in waves. She felt herself flush, her mouth desert dry. Finally she nodded in answer to his question, incapable of forming the words.
‘I suspected as much,’ he continued. ‘I understood you to be quite beautiful. Of course, until now I had no idea just how much.’
She blinked slowly as something lurched inside her. How could just a few words affect her so deeply? She was used to the flattery and attention she received from the local males. They had a reputation for appreciating the feminine form and they certainly lived up to it. But it was always given in good spirit and in a way that was more lighthearted than serious.
This man’s words resonated on another level entirely. Maybe it was something to do with the way his eyes continued to scrutinise her face as if drinking in every detail, to rake over her body with the hot power of a blowtorch.
And still she didn’t know who he was.
She straightened her back, pushing herself taller and battling to damp down her own mounting temperature. She’d had enough of being on the defensive.
‘You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Signor…?’
‘Call me Khaled,’ he said, offering her his hand.
She took it and almost immediately wished she hadn’t, sensing her new-found courage melt away. For now, with his long, tapered fingers enclosing hers, their latent strength seeping into her flesh, she felt as if he’d somehow taken charge, as if he somehow possessed her.
And that was crazy.
She didn’t belong to anyone, least of all to this dark stranger. Even Paolo, whom she’d been seeing on and off for more than two years, didn’t instil this sense of possession in her.
She tugged on her hand, aware the stranger had been holding on to it for much too long, and stepped around him, focusing on steadying the rhythm of her breathing as she headed for the salon’s lounge area.If she didn’t have to concentrate on standing up, maybe she could think more clearly. She indicated an armchair while she glanced over to the door, willing someone,anyone, to enter the store. ‘Please,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘tell me how I can help you.’
He watched her panicked retreat and her longing glance at the passing pedestrians with some entertainment. He’d been right to wait until now to make his move. It was late and unlikely anyone else would visit the salon and interrupt them. Unlikely anyone would come to her rescue.
She turned and looked at him, the questions laid bare in her large blue eyes. He could see her vulnerability and how she was fighting it. He could feel her suspicion, warring with curiosity.
He could taste her fear.
She was much more interesting than he’d been led to believe. And more beautiful. Even with tell-tale smudges of tiredness around her eyes, they shone with life and promise in features arranged perfectly on her face. Her dark-gold hair was swept up into a sleek curve that exposed the smooth sweep of her neck.
The face of a model and the body of a goddess. Paolo couldn’t have chosen better.
She would do perfectly.
‘What can I do for you, Signor Khaled?’ she asked as he curved his length into the plush Venetian-style chair opposite her own. ‘Are you looking for something for a special woman?’
He smiled, more to himself than outwardly. ‘You could say that. Your designs are the talk of Milan. Your show was an outstanding success. For a foreigner you have done remarkably well in breaking into such a competitive market.’
‘I’ve been very lucky.’
‘You are very talented,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you would not be where you are.’
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, her cheeks surprisingly tinged with pink, almost as if she was unused to compliments. ‘Was there something in the collection that particularly interested you?’
‘It is all of interest. But that’s not why I’m here. I want you to make a dress.’
He saw the interest flare in her eyes. ‘Certainly. That’s not a problem. I do commission work for many of my clients.’
He could see by her body language that she was finally relaxing as they spoke, back in the familiar territory of what she did best. Her shoulders looked less rigid and, by the steady rise and fall of her chest, her breathing appeared more under control. She assumed he was just one more customer. This would be almost too easy.
‘This will be no ordinary dress,’ he continued. ‘I am to be married in four weeks. I want you to design and construct a wedding gown for my wife-to-be.’
A wedding dress.She loved all o
f her design work but always the greatest satisfaction, the greatest thrill, came in designing wedding gowns, a woman’s most important dress for her most important day. A dress that complemented, that accentuated while it minimised and made the most of the bride as it transformed her into a princess; Sapphy loved nothing more than to make it happen. But he was cutting it fine.
‘A wedding gown in just four weeks? Usually we would recommend at least three times that for something so special.’
‘With your talent, I should not think that will be a problem.’
Her pulse raced at the opportunity he was offering while her mind was busy negotiating the difficulties that still stood in the way of accepting the job. ‘Thank you. You pay me a huge compliment by even offering me this commission. However, as much as I am tempted, I do have other responsibilities and other clients I must consider before I can accept.’
He pushed himself from the chair and loomed over her. ‘But you have just shown your latest collection. That is completed. You will design this dress.’
She felt her eyes widen, taken aback as much at his physical presence before her as his bold statement. Until now he’d given the impression he specifically wanted her to design the wedding gown. Could it be that other designers had already turned down the commission? Maybe desperation was forcing his hand and he’d run out of options.
Besides, as tempted as she was to take on any wedding-gown design project, she would be mad to promise something she could not deliver. Especially just because it was demanded of her. ‘I’m still not a free agent. I do have my own line now, it’s true, but I still work within the House of Bacelli.’
‘I have already spoken with Gianfranco Bacelli. He will release you.’
‘I see.’ But she didn’t see. She bit down on her lip as she considered his revelation. This was no ordinary commission, not if it had already been squared away with the ageing designer who headed the Bacelli house. Whoever this Khaled was, he was a man of influence. And he obviously expected her to fall in with his plans.
He took a step closer. ‘You will be compensated well.’
She stood up, forcing her five-feet-eight frame taller, wanting to show him she would not be the pushover he expected, though she still conceded a good six inches to his height. ‘Be that as it may, you have left things very late. As you are no doubt aware, I work to the highest possible standards and that means it may simply not be feasible to do the dress justice in the time available.’
‘Name your price, then.’
She drew back, offended by the implication. ‘Signor Khaled, you misunderstand me. I wasn’t angling at securing a higher price for my services, merely pointing out that the time is very short even to complete the design to the satisfaction of the bride, let alone to construct the dress.’
He waved away her umbrage with a flick of his wrist, almost as if he was bored. ‘This dress will be your design. You are the designer.’
‘But surely the bride will want to have her say? Perhaps she’d like to come in, we can talk about it together, get some ideas down on paper?’
‘No!’ He glowered down at her. ‘That will not be possible.’ He turned and strode to the window. ‘She knows your designs. She would have no one else design her wedding dress. You will design it yourself.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid that makes the job almost impossible, then. At a minimum I need to know the bride’s tastes and preferences. I need to know what colours best suit her and what styles complement her figure.’
‘You cannot meet her. At least—not yet.’
‘But why? What bride doesn’t want to be involved in organising her own gown?’
His dark eyes narrowed. ‘She is…indisposed. The wedding will be challenge enough for her. She doesn’t need the additional stress beforehand.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Sapphy’s mind whirled with the possibilities. What could be the problem? Unless she was ill, too ill to handle her own wedding plans. That might also explain the rush…
Her heart filled with compassion. It all fitted. His bride was ill, perhaps seriously, and they wanted to marry while they still could. No wonder he was so desperate to retain her services. No wonder he seemed so angry with her.
‘I can tell you all you need to know,’ he said. ‘I can answer all your questions. So, will you design the gown?’
She swallowed, trying to ease the sudden constriction in her throat. If she was right about the circumstances of this marriage, there was no way she couldn’t help. There was no way she could let a bride in such circumstances down. But likewise she wanted more than anything for the bride to be delighted with her dress and, without the usual input, how could she be sure she could pull it off?
‘This is a heavy responsibility. I would need to be sure the bride will be satisfied with the gown. I would hate for her to be disappointed in any way.’
‘I guarantee, she will love it.’ He suddenly pivoted to face her, as if something had occurred to him. ‘All she asks…’
Sapphy’s ears pricked up, eager for anything that would give her some indication of the bride’s preferences. ‘Yes?’
He smiled, his teeth white against his tanned skin and his eyes shining in the glow from the downlights. ‘All she asks is that you imagine that this is your wedding, that you imagine you are the bride and that this is the gown of your dreams. Only then will she be happy.’
Her eyelids fell shut, long and purposefully, as the tingles she’d thought long gone resumed their samba along her spine. A client was paying her the ultimate compliment, letting her decide everything about the dress’s style, fabric and design. It was an unbelievable opportunity to showcase her talent. Yet something still didn’t feel right.
And part of it was in imagining this was her wedding and the resultant picture that flashed through her mind’s eye. She was walking down the carpeted aisle towards the man waiting for her. But something was wrong. The man was wrong.
It wasn’t Paolo waiting for her.
It was Signor Khaled.
She shuddered and forced her eyes open, staring out into the busy Via Monte Napoleone in an effort to banish the unwelcome pictures from her mind.
He was nothing to her. Nothing but another client and one who was marrying another woman—a sick woman if the indications were correct. So why would she imagine even for a second the thought of marrying such a man? And why did the images persist?
She had to focus on the bride and her gown. This would be her day and Sapphy would do all she could to make it the most special day in the world for her. ‘I’ll still need to meet her at some stage, of course,’ she said, turning away from the traffic at last. ‘I’ll need to do at least some fittings.’
‘We will deal with that in Jebbai. I have organised a studio for you. You can start work as soon as you arrive.’
‘In Jebbai?’ Warning bells rang loud in her mind. ‘But that’s somewhere out in the desert. You expect me to go there?’
‘Jebbai is an independent state. You have no need to fear. You will be safe while you are in my care. I guarantee that.’
‘But why can’t I do the job here? I have clients who will need me, I have access to all the fabrics…’
‘Gianfranco Bacelli has taken care of all that.’ He smiled, or was it just the way he tilted his head? ‘And you do want to meet the bride, don’t you?’
She paused, licked her dry lips. ‘I still haven’t agreed to do this.’
‘No?’ he asked, as if he believed she had no choice. ‘Then you have until Sunday to decide. We fly out Monday.’
CHAPTER TWO
SAPPHYlet herself into her apartment, tired but at the same time exhilarated. While her body was tingling from her unexpected meeting with Signor Khaled, her mind was weighed down with uncertainty.
The proposal had come completely out of the blue, but given that her current collection and the shows were complete, the timing really couldn’t be better. Nevertheless, it would still be tight, designing and completing
something special within four weeks.
If she agreed to go to Jebbai.
Jebbai.
Just the name was enough to conjure up exotic images of endless golden sand and swaying palm trees. But what did she really know about the desert kingdom other than that it was a small independent Arab state, landlocked by sand and that it had made its fortune with its rich oil reserves?
She flicked through her small pile of mail, finding nothing there compelling enough to open immediately and distract her thoughts, so she put the letters back down and moved to the glass doors overlooking her small balcony. She stepped out into the cool air, leaning her forearms on the railing, watching the people in the square below enjoying the surprisingly mild February evening, milling about talking to friends or drifting off to one of the restaurants lining the small square.