by Trish Morey
What should she say to Paolo?
Her mobile phone was useless out here and in a way she was glad. She wanted Paolo to contact her first. But he hadn’t made any attempt. They hadn’t spoken since their argument in Milan and somehow ‘the weather’s fine, wish you were here’ didn’t cut it. So why couldn’t she think of anything to write?
Part of her wanted to reach out and repair the damage to their relationship. The other part of her was still angry with him. He’d scared her half mad with his predictions of disaster in Jebbai, done his best to put her off going. And without offering a shred of evidence to support his crazy claims.
Without a doubt Khaled was a force to be reckoned with. Certainly he had issues with the tragic death of his parents, but was that so unusual?
Whatever, surely it should be easier to recall exactly how Paolo looked while she attempted to write this postcard? Instead her thoughts were infused with the shadow of a tall, dark-eyed man, brooding and magnetic, emphatic and compulsive. Why did he come to mind so easily when pictures of Paolo were proving so difficult to summon? Why was it so hard to forget about him?
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. ‘Come in,’ she called without looking up, expecting Azizah to be returning from some errand or advising her that the midday meal was ready.
‘Am I interrupting you?’
Her head snapped up to where he stood inside the door, looking down at her. She shivered. He hadn’t been in her rooms since the day she’d arrived. Somehow the large room seemed shrunken with him in it. He strode closer to the desk, pouncing on the postcard she was toying with. She hadn’t managed to get further than the address and ‘Dear Paolo’. A nerve in his cheek twitched. Her heart jumped wildly in her chest. They’d never discussed Paolo by name so how would Khaled react to seeing her postcard addressed to him? And would he recall their differences as clearly and as vehemently as had Paolo?
‘Missing your boyfriend?’
Her blood formed an icy crust. ‘Who said he was my boyfriend?’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘Fair question,’ he said. ‘Maybe “lover” would be more appropriate.’
Her knuckles tightened as she screwed her fingers tighter around her pen. ‘I haven’t finished that.’
‘On the contrary, you haven’t started it. Nothing to say after so long apart?’
She kicked up her chin. She wasn’t going to discuss Paolo and their relationship with anybody, least of all with Khaled. ‘The dress is just about complete,’ she said, switching topics. ‘When are you going to agree to my request for a fitting with the bride?’
He flicked the card back down onto the desk. ‘She knows what you’re doing. There’s no rush.’
‘On the contrary,’ she said, reiterating his own words for emphasis, ‘there’s every reason to rush. You have two weeks until this wedding and if I can complete this gown now, that’s one major thing out of the way and then I can go home. I need just one fitting with the bride and my work is almost done.’
He lunged towards the desk and spread his arms down wide around her, his face dipping closer to hers. ‘Are you in such a hurry to return to your lover? Why so, when he has made no attempt to contact you in all the time you have been here?’
‘How do you know he hasn’t?’
‘Has he?’ he challenged.
She refused to let her gaze fall. She would not be drawn into whatever game Khaled was playing.
‘The dress is almost ready,’ she repeated. ‘When do I get my fitting?’
‘Show me,’ he said.
She was grateful for the opportunity to get up from her desk and burn up some of her nervous tension, if only by walking to the next room. She led the way into the workroom, where the almost completed garment sat on the model set up according to the measurements provided. Even on something as in animate as a headless arrangement of metal and padding the dress was sensational. She felt a surge of pride just looking at it. Together with the team that Khaled had assembled for her, she’d turned a rough sketch into a dress that would turn its wearer into a princess. It would be perfect.
Or it could be, if only she could be guaranteed a fitting before the big day.
‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘Now, when do I get my fitting?’
‘When I say so.’
‘Iam the designer here and I say that I need to have a fitting now.’
‘The bride is not ready.’
‘This is crazy. If your bride cannot manage to turn up for a fitting, how can you be so sure she’ll turn up for the wedding?’
‘She’ll be there.’
‘You think so?’ She hesitated, almost afraid to put to voice the thoughts her mind was now throwing around. ‘You know, I thought she must be desperately sick, that’s why the secrecy, that’s why her nonappearance for a fitting and her complete noninvolvement in this wedding. Yet you don’t act like the husband-to-be of an ill woman. Something’s not right. She’s not sick, is she?’
‘I never said she was ill.’
‘You let me believe she was.’ It was an accusation.
He shrugged. ‘What you choose to believe is up to you.’
‘But then, why else would she be so invisible? What other reason can there be for her not wanting to be involved in her own wedding?’
Her mind churned, wheels turning as the fight she’d had with Paolo came into sharp relief. He’d warned her that things weren’t right. The shudder that moved through her chilled her to the bone. She gritted her teeth to prevent them chattering as the knowledge of what he was doing seeped into her consciousness.
‘I have to question whether there even is a bride,’ she whispered, when at last the tremors in her body had stilled enough for her to talk. ‘That would explain why she’s not exactly champing at the bit to walk down the aisle with you. I’ve been here for two weeks without catching a glimpse of her. Nobody talks about her and I don’t even think she’s got a name. You’ve certainly never mentioned it. There’s no bride and no wedding and no reason for me to be here. Yet I don’t understand—’
‘There is a bride!’
‘Oh? Then maybe Paolo was right. I should have listened to him. He warned me this was on the cards, that even if there was a bride, she might be less than willing.
‘Is that closer to the mark, then?’ she continued, her voice lifting in her own certainty. ‘Is that what you’re worried about—that your reluctant bride has to be dragged kicking and screaming to the altar because she’s being forced to marry you? Is that why you can’t let her have a fitting, because the poor girl can’t bear the thought of wearing the dress on her wedding day, let alone any other time? Because she can’t bear the thought of marrying you?’
He spun towards her, reaching out, cold fury gathered like storm clouds in his eyes, the lines of his golden skin drawn and tight around his mouth. His hands clenched down on her upper arms like iron claws, manacles for her arms, pinning her to the spot with a white-hot grip.
‘You think your Paolo knows everything? Obviously he could not or you would not be here.’
‘Wha—? What do you mean?’
‘You really want to meet my bride? You so desperately want this fitting?’
She swallowed, tasting his fury on her tongue, swirling in the heated fog of his proximity. Yet even in a rage she felt his raw sexuality reach out for her. Even in her fear she felt her own body react, her breasts achingly firm, her thighs soften and pulse within.
She battled to focus on his words when his lips were so close. Too close. She could bury herself in his heat, lose herself in his power.
He could make it happen and she would be powerless to stop him.
She wouldn’t want to stop him.
She wouldn’t even try to stop him.
‘Well?’ he demanded, dragging her thoughts back into focus. ‘You want this fitting?’
She sucked in a breath too low on oxygen and too highly charged with the scent of him and tried to forget how much he affected her. ‘All
she needs is to try on the dress. Just once. That’s all. And then I’ll be happy.’
He scoffed. ‘Then you’ll be happy?’
Her chin kicked up, reclaiming some measure of defiance. ‘Just one fitting. It’s not too much to ask, surely?’
‘Okay,’ he said, almost discarding her as he let go his grip and wheeled away. Two strides on he turned back, the fury in his eyes replaced with something else—boldness? ‘You win. You get your fitting.’
At last.She let go a deep breath she’d been holding and rubbed her arms where the touch of him lingered like a brand. She would finally get the fitting she’d been asking for, then she could complete the dress and get on the next flight out of here. It wouldn’t be soon enough. ‘So when? How soon can you arrange it?’
‘Right now.’
There was no way she would miss the opportunity. ‘About time. Would it be best to take the dress there?’
‘No need for that. We can do it right here.’
‘What do you mean—you’ll bring her here?’
‘No,’ he said, the spark in his eyes taking on a victorious gleam. ‘You wanted a fitting with the bride—you’ve got one.’
‘But I don’t understand.’
‘So put it on.’
‘What?’
‘Put-the-dress-on!’
CHAPTER SIX
‘NO!’ COLDfear crashed over her, a drenching wave that left logic spluttering in its wake. ‘This has to be some kind of sick joke.’
His eyebrows lifted in response, his mouth curling dangerously into a bare grin that held no trace of humour. He took a step closer. ‘You will make a beautiful bride.’
She shook her head, inching backwards as she kept her eyes fixed on him, willing him to keep his distance as her mind battled for reason.
He moved closer still.
‘You’re just trying to scare me, because I insisted on this fitting. You’re just trying to get back at me.’ She felt the worktable behind her, clutching on to it with tight fingers for support, praying for its solidity and strength to supplement her own.
‘Are you going to try it on?’
‘No, of course not.’
He stopped just inches away, looking down at her, and she waited for the moment when he would reach out and touch her, searing her again with his hands.
It was crazy. What he was saying was crazy, yet still the anticipation of his touch threatened to wipe out logical thought. And she needed to think straight, needed to harness every shred of reason that she could muster in order to fight her way out of his onslaught.
‘You were the one who insisted on a fitting.’
‘It’s not my dress.’
‘Isn’t it? Then whose measurements do you think were provided to you? That dress was made to fit you like a glove. That dress was made for you.’
‘How?’ she asked even as the realisation hit her—they’d taken her measurements her first morning here.She’d let them take them. ‘You tricked me. You said those were so they could make some sort of gift. You lied to me.’
He shook his head. ‘I did not lie. Your traditional Jebbai garments have been made for you. I just did not tell you all of the truth.’
‘This is mad. I’m not your bride. I won’t be your bride. You can’t make me.’
‘I won’t need to. You’ll come to me willingly.’
She laughed, her tension betrayed in the short, fractured sound. ‘Now you kid yourself. Why the hell would I do that?’
‘Because,’ he said, curling one hand around her neck, while the other snaked its way around her waist, pulling her close and extinguishing the space between them, ‘you want me.’
She fought the pressure of his hands, not allowing herself to be collected as easily as he might wish. ‘In your dreams.’
‘I do dream, as it happens,’ he said, his voice low and close to her ear, so that his breath curled against her skin, the sensation assailing her senses. ‘And I dream of you, in my bed, under me, on top of me, bucking with me. Every way I dream of you and your eyes flashing blue as you explode in my arms.’
Her breath stuck fast in her throat as his lips caressed the skin under her ear while the very same pictures played wide-screen in her mind.
It wasn’t just her then.
The attraction she’d felt, the pull, the magnetism—if what he said was true it wasn’t just one-sided. He felt it too, this allure, this desire.
Clothing faded to insignificance as she was dragged into contact with him, from her chest to her thighs, and, for all the protection they gave her, her clothes might not have been there. His arousal pressed firm and hard into her belly, proof of his own attraction and upping the gears on her own need. Involuntarily she squirmed against him, driven more by passion than by common sense.
He uttered something in Arabic, something primal and guttural, a low roar that spoke of his own desires, as he lowered his head, meshing his mouth with hers.
Her senses blurred in the rush of blood, the bloom of hotness that came at the touch of his lips, as his mouth moved over hers.Intoxicating. How could one mouth feel so persuasive, so magical?
The urge to comply with the sweet demands of his lips was almost irresistible, the urge to let her own mouth open and blossom under his overwhelming. He tasted of intensity and power, of the timeless desert sands, and he tasted so right. He felt so right. Her body was already preparing itself for more, wanting more.
But he wasn’t right.
He was wrong.
Wrong about her—wrong for her—just plain wrong. And she would be making the mistake of her life to give into his sensual onslaught.
How could she believe anything he said or did? This was a man who’d brought her to Jebbai under false pretences. This was a man who’d got her here by claiming he was marrying another, only to think he could claim her for his bride.
This was a man who had lost his grip on reality.
And she would not be part of his fantasy!
She wrenched back her head, fighting off the band of his arm around her neck, pushing him away at his shoulders.
‘No,’ she breathed, her mouth dodging his searching lips. ‘Let me go.’
He caught her hands in his, trapping her forearms against his chest. ‘You want me, don’t try to deny it.’
‘No. I don’t want you,’ she insisted, her voice defiant, even though she knew she was hardly telling the whole truth. ‘Why would I? I have a boyfriend.’
Strangely he smiled. It was the last thing she’d expected and his cool reaction to her words stilled her fight.
‘Ah, of course. Paolo.’ In her motionless state he transferred one wrist to join the other. With his free hand he drew a slow line from her forehead to her chin. ‘The newspapers seemed to suggest he was more than just aboyfriend , though. Wasn’t there talk of marriage between you?’
Her veins turned to ice even as his fingers seemed to sear her soul. How would he know that? Just how long had he been watching her?
‘All right,’ she said, putting aside the complications of her relationship with Paolo in the disturbing warmth generated by Khaled’s touch. ‘Yes, I have a fiancé. And if I’m going to marry anyone, I’d prefer it to be him.’
He laughed, sudden and loud and as if he was truly enjoying himself. Yet there was unmistakably a hard edge she heard there too.
‘Tell me, then,’ he asked, ‘do you think Paolo will rush to your rescue? Do you think he would marry you himself, just to save you from me? Is your lover that much of a hero?’
‘Of course he would marry me,’ she maintained, stiffening further in his arms, certain that, for all his recent and inexplicable in ability to commit, he would never let her suffer the indignity of a forced marriage to anyone, let alone someone like Sheikh Khaled. ‘And he will, just as soon as I get out of this place.’
She kicked her chin up defiantly. So it wasn’t exactly the truth—Khaled didn’t need to know that, and Paolohad said that they would work out their differenc
es on her return. But if it brought Khaled to his senses, so much the better.
He paused and frowned, and something indefinable intruded into his dark eyes. ‘You love him that much you would believe that?’ he asked, his dark, clouded eyes searching hers.
The sudden tender note in his voice took her by surprise. Did he really care how much she felt for Paolo? ‘I…Of course—’