He didn’t interrupt at first—for a moment he couldn’t because he was rooted to the spot—because for some reason he recognised the music. The notes were buried, but they were there and they were true, and each note she sang was like a shovel in his gut, exposing more.
‘What are you singing?’ he growled, when he could wait no longer, because he had to know.
Her singing stopped, and she looked up, suspicious, her eyes wide at finding him so close. ‘Just a lullaby. I think it’s Persian. Why?’ she said, and suspicion turned to concern as she scanned his features. ‘Is something wrong?’
He didn’t know. All he knew was that there was something churning in his gut that brought him out in a cold sweat and made his skin crawl. How would he know the tune to a lullaby he was sure he’d never heard before?
But the way she was looking at him, as if he were mad, or worse... He looked for something that he could talk about to cover his confusion. His eyes fell on the infant. ‘How is she?’ he forced out, his mind clamouring to remember why he was here. ‘I thought babies were supposed to scream through flights.’
Her doubting eyes told him she knew he hadn’t come back to discuss the flying habits of babies. ‘She’s a good baby. Have you changed your mind? Would you like to hold her a while?’
He looked away, wondering where his anger had gone. He’d been sure he was angry when he’d left his seat, but now he was wondering why.
‘Only I get the impression you haven’t had a lot to do with babies. Do you have no other brothers or sisters?’
‘No.’
‘Babies aren’t hard to look after,’ she said. ‘They just need to know they’re loved.’
Well, that was the problem right there. How was he supposed to let a child know it was loved when he wasn’t entirely sure how that was supposed to work? What did he have to offer? ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I really just came back—to make sure you were comfortable.’
Liar.
She knew it, too, and yet still she attempted a smile. A nervous smile. She snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, before saying, ‘Rashid, now that you’re here, can I ask you something?’
‘What?’
The ‘fasten seat belt’ sign lit up then and she put the baby back in her capsule, fastening the clasp over her belly and checking the seat belt. When she looked back up, her teeth were scraping over her bottom lip again. ‘It’s just about the money. I need to have it transferred as soon as possible.’
He breathed out on a sigh as resentment seeped like black ink into his mind, banishing his confusion with something he was entirely more comfortable with. ‘The money.’ He nodded. Now there was something that made sense. There was something he could understand. ‘We haven’t been married ten minutes and you can’t wait to get your hands on your precious money.’
‘Excuse me? You’re the one who couldn’t wait to land the plane before we were married. I’ve upheld my end of the bargain.’
‘You expect the money now?’
‘Well, we’re married now, aren’t we? So I thought—’
‘You thought?’ He was happy beyond measure that she’d turned the conversation away from where he felt so challenged and vulnerable and to money, which was solid and real and which he knew. ‘You thought you could suddenly start dictating the terms?’ Because if she thought that, then maybe it was time to start changing them.
‘You’re the one who agreed to pay me if I agreed to marry you.’
‘Oh, you’ll get your money, Ms Burgess. But I have to say, I’m disappointed you put so low a value on your services. I would have paid a million dollars, maybe even two for the pleasure of having you in my marital bed.’
Her face flushed bright red. ‘Our deal didn’t include me sleeping with you. I told you that wasn’t going to happen.’
He was teasing her, of course. He had no intention of touching her again; he was still raw from losing himself too much—and too deeply—but her reaction pleased him inordinately and he was enjoying it. ‘But you also told me you wouldn’t marry me, and look at us now, happy newly-weds.’
‘You can’t make me sleep with you. That’s unconscionable.’
He leaned down, one hand on the back of her seat, the other toying with a tendril of hair that had come loose from her bun.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late to take the moral high ground? Who was it who picked me up in a bar? And after last night I know you’re no shy, retiring virgin. Far from it. Why pretend you don’t want a repeat of last night as much as I do?’