lly give in a situation such as this. Perhaps a platitude. More likely he’d have her moved to another part of the plane, so that he could concentrate on his work without this sense of worry. But he did neither. He reached across and took her hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly.
Emma felt like tiny little daggers were dancing under her skin. Pins and needles on speed. His hand was warm, she noted. His skin soft. His fingers long and capable, and his nails short and well cared for, though not in the way of a man who gets regular manicures. She knew she should have broken the contact. He was, after all, about to be reunited with Cassandra. But she couldn’t. She was weak, and she hated herself for it, but all of a sudden, Emma realized her future was going to be made bearable by illicit physical contact with a man she could never have, and must pine for very, very privately.
And so she let him hold her hand as the plan dropped out of the sky (well, descended in a safe and controlled manner, rather), and as it careened along the runway (landed perfectly and slowed to a steady crawl). As the engines quieted down and the plane nudged towards the terminal building, Emma let out a deep breath and let go of the Sheikh’s hand. Four crescent shaped indents were clearly visible along the ridges of his knuckles, where her fingers had bitten into his royal skin.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She exclaimed, leaning forward and inspecting the marks. “I really am a terribly flyer, but it’s no excuse for mauling you.”
He bit back the retort that being mauled by her was at the top of his wish list currently.
The pilots cut the engine and once again, the cabin was a hive of ground and flight staff. Fatima came toward them, carrying a sheer piece of pale blue cloth. She passed it to Rafiq with a smile at Emma and then disappeared to the front of the plane.
“Here, put this on,” Rafiq passed the fabric to Emma, and, when she looked at it in confusion, he took it back from her. “Allow me.” He draped it skillfully over her head, noticing the way her eyes were clouded and her lips parted slightly.
He stood back to admire his work. “Perfect.”
She frowned. “But, Rafiq, we don’t wear head scarves in America.”
“But women in Amar’a do…”
End of Chapter Two.