The Gulfstream V took off smoothly and ate up the miles through the air with a five-star efficiency that mirrored its internal opulence. Sapphy nestled into the soft leather upholstery of the armchair, taking a brief break from the preliminary sketches she was working on, knowing that she’d never look at air travel in quite the same way again.
The cabin had been fitted out to ensure the comfort of its passengers. The few seats were all large and luxurious, the dining setting where she was now sitting large enough for a silver-service menu, and to the rear was a business office complete with computer and fax facilities made possible by satellite-communication links. There were other rooms too, she could tell, closed off to the rear. Space, speed and luxury. Sheikh Khaled obviously travelled in style.
And so far he’d been the perfect host. He’d handled the outgoing formalities with aplomb, seen her settled and comfortable for their take-off and then he’d excused himself, retiring to the cockpit to talk to the pilot. Meanwhile the attentive stewards ensured she was supplied with everything she needed and more.
If this was a taste of how things would be in Jebbai, she had nothing at all to fear from Sheikh Khaled. Just as she’d rationalised, he would have plenty enough to keep him occupied and she’d need hardly ever see him.
The cockpit door swung open and Sapphy’s eyes felt compelled to follow the movement. Khaled emerged and seemed to pause, mid-step, as his eyes met hers. Breath jagged in her chest as she saw something pass through them, somet
hing hot and hungry and real…
And then it was gone, and the corners of his mouth kicked up and he resumed his progress towards her. She turned her face back to her sketches, making random lines with her pencil, knowing the sudden burst of internal fire she was experiencing would be splashed vividly all over her face.
So much for feeling relaxed.
Then his hand was on her shoulder and her pencil jerked in her fingers as every muscle inside her clamped shut.
‘Lovely,’ he said, close enough to her ear as he bent down to look at her sketches that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek and there was no way he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart. She didn’t dare glance sideways—he was too close, way too close.
She licked her lips, trying to focus on the sketches. ‘They’re just some rough ideas at this stage, but I was wondering if you have any idea which kind of style you think your bride will prefer? I don’t even have a clue as to her measurements yet, so some of these may not be appropriate.’
He stayed silent for a few seconds, seconds where his hand remained on her shoulder and his breath curled against her skin. Seconds that dragged long and interminable.
‘I like this one,’ he said at last, pointing with his free hand to a graceful princess-line dress, scooped over the shoulders and neck and falling to a full skirt with cleverly designed pleats that revealed a complementary underskirt. ‘What do you think?’
From her peripheral vision she knew he’d turned and was looking at her, waiting for her response. She breathed in, licked her lips and nodded. That particular design was her own personal favourite from the half-dozen scattered over the table. It was elegant, stunning in its simplicity, and yet regal enough for a princess.
‘If you think it will suit her,’ she offered, turning her head fractionally towards him at last, while still directing her eyes anywhere but on his face.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, his voice low and husky. ‘I think it will be perfect…’
She lifted her eyes to his and her mouth went dry.
‘Just perfect.’
He was close. Too close. So close she could taste his breath on hers. So close she could see herself reflected in the dark mirror of his eyes. So close she had cause to wonder whether Paolo’s warnings hadn’t been somewhere near the mark. This was no ordinary man. Had she done the wrong thing by coming after all?
Yet why did she seem to freeze when she should be doing something—anything? And he wasn’t pulling away. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was getting even closer…
This wasn’t happening! She jerked her head away and leaned forward, scrabbling with the papers on the table in a poor interpretation of organising them. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep working on that design if it suits you. And as soon as I have some measurements, I’ll make some real progress.’
She knew she was babbling but it kept her mouth busy and right now that seemed the most important thing on earth. The way he’d looked at her lips. Surely he hadn’t been going to kiss her? He was a man about to get married after all.
She must have been imagining it. Paolo’s words had poisoned her. Was it possible to suffer altitude sickness in a pressurised aircraft?
She was aware of him standing upright and his hand left her shoulder at last. Strange, it had been there so long, it almost felt cold now that he’d removed it.
‘This calls for champagne,’ he said, gesturing to the stewards. He sat down in the chair alongside her as if nothing had just happened as a steward delivered two champagne flutes and an ice bucket containing a chilled bottle of sparkling wine. She recognised the label instantly.
‘Australian wine?’
He dipped his head a fraction. ‘In your honour. I thought you might like a taste of your homeland, seeing as I was taking you away even from your adopted city.’
A swell of warmth moved through her as she was strangely touched by the gesture. She’d expected, from the luxury of the plane, that for him it would be Dom Perignon or nothing. To choose an Australian wine, a simply stunning Australian wine none the less, was something she’d never expected. And he’d done it to make her feel at home?
How did he do this to her? How could he make her feel so on edge one minute, so considered the next?
The sparkling wine was poured and he handed her a flute. ‘I propose a toast,’ he said. ‘To a gown that is going to be as breathtaking as the astonishing woman who designs it.’