CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER TEN
“COME WITH ME .”
She tightened her robe across her chest, feeling rather silly in it, but her clothes were hanging in the bathroom and still soaked through. She trailed her companion through the house while outside rain lashed the roof and windows, and the occasional tree branch made a tapping noise against the glass. They emerged into another part of the house, one that immediately looked more intimate.
“This is where I spend most of my time—the part you saw earlier is for entertaining. My office is there.” He gestured at a closed door. “I eat in here.”
The room in question was delightful, rendered in shades of muted rust and gold, and featuring a sunken floor with enormous cushions around a low table. Candles flickered on the table enhancing the soft warm light spilling from lamps around the room and the glow from a fire that sparked and crackled in the ornate fireplace. Val lowered herself onto a squashy cushion on the floor. The slippery fabric of her dressing gown was hard to manage and she pulled it round her legs and back up over her breasts just in time.
His eyes flickered over her, and she felt a familiar flush of heat when she realized he had noticed.
“Sorry about the dressing gown,” he said. “My stepmother keeps them for guests, but it’s not very practical, is it?”
“It’s fine. It’s beautiful,” she said, and forced a smile.
“I could give you something of mine—”
“Oh, no. No. I’m perfectly all right.” The thought of wearing his clothes, of wrapping herself in what was sure to be his scent… “This is lovely. Thank you.”
“I’ll have something brought over for you.” He came to join her, easing himself down against the cushions of the low seat. He exhaled as if his body hurt, then bent over the table to uncover the dishes. He obviously had a discreet staff member—or three—who had set up the room and produced the food. Steam curled up from the plates and Val felt her stomach tighten with hunger. There was a small dish to her right with a steaming hot towel on it; she picked it up and wiped her hands.
“I hope you like lamb. And Ethiopian food,” Desmond said.
Val nodded. “Yes, I do.” She recognized it immediately. “Some of my colleagues are Ethiopian. And Eritrean,” she added as an afterthought.
“Yes, I’ve heard there are quite a few in Bahr Al-Dahab.” He lifted the woven lid of the mesob with a flourish, gesturing that she should take one of the springy flatbread pieces within. “Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” When her injara was safely on her plate, he offered her the bowl of stew. Her stomach growled audibly as she spooned some onto the flatbread. She waited until he’d served himself, then lifted the first bite to her lips.
It was delicious—fatty, tender lamb cooked in a spicy, flavorful stew seasoned with chili oil. She looked up to see Desmond regarding her with amusement.
“What?” she said, covering her mouth with her hand.
He laughed, and the sound added warmth to the room. “My father would have been impressed at your eating with your hands.”
“Are you Ethiopian?”
“I was born in Surrey. My father left Ethiopia in the eighties, during the hunger crisis.” He paused to tear off a bit of bread, deftly spooning stew in one quick motion.
“Your mother?”
“Oh, they got divorced early on, and she went home. She married again. I stayed with my father here.”
“Oh, I see.”
“He was the youngest of six brothers. They all worked, got themselves through school, combined resources, and started a business. All things aviation. Airplane parts. Maintenance. Consulting.” He gestured at himself. “Tesfay Aviation Solutions was what it was called. They really capitalized on the boom in affordable air travel. My father was a tagalong teenager for most of it, but he really came into his own when he convinced them to let him start a marketing and advertising leg of the business. He did well, for a really long time—he’s responsible for a lot of the advertising for smaller international airlines. Was ,” he corrected himself.
Val nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“It was amazing,” he said quietly, looking up and meeting her eyes. “They built a fortune in one generation. That’s them, there,” he said, gesturing to a painting on the wall.
Val rose to her feet and crossed over to the painting, wanting a closer look. The men were all lean and handsome and had something of Desmond in their faces, in the sinewy build, in the beautiful skin. The traditional style of the portrait and the soft brushstrokes made it difficult to identify features too closely. She squinted, wishing she had her glasses, then stepped back, bumping directly into Desmond.
“Oh! Sorry!” She hadn’t even heard him come up behind her.
“Not an issue at all.” She could feel the warmth of his body radiating into her back.
“That’s Abuna, Abel, Selama, Thaddaeus, my father Abram, and Markos.”
“They’re very handsome.”
“Yeah, they would say that, too.”
“Are they still in London?”
“Some of them. A couple went to the US. Uncle Abel’s in Ethiopia at the moment.” She sensed hesitation from him and she turned to face him. “We’re not…terribly close,” he said. A shadow passed over his face. “There was a bit of a break, a few years ago.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
“We have time.” She didn’t know why she was pushing, especially because his face was growing darker and darker. She was convinced he would change the subject and the moment would be over.
“The flight he was on…it was an airline that he and my brothers developed with the firm from inception to the first flight. It was in response to increased budget tourism, and my father wrote an absolutely magnificent campaign. What he designed… I’ve never seen anything like that before. I was so proud of him—” Desmond’s voice became so frayed that Val felt a stab of physical pain herself. She inhaled to steady herself and found that the air was heavy with the sweetness of lemon candle wax, the spicy richness of chili oil and meat, and… Desmond.
“When the flight was lost, shares plunged. It was an ugly story. My uncles were fighting among each other, throwing around accusations of blame… in the end, they sold all their shares to me, wanting to wash their hands of it. And now here I am. Carrying that legacy.”
“And you— haven’t seen them since then?”
Desmond shook his head. “They blamed my father, you see,” he said. “That made it…impossible for me to stay with them.”
There was no sound in the room other than the rain drumming on the skylights above. Desmond rubbed a hand over the top of his head, looking wearier than she’d seen him before, and so different from the cool, sardonic bachelor she’d met only yesterday.
We’re all hiding something , she thought.
Some just buried it deeper than others. And in this moment, she felt his loneliness. Earlier that day, at the memorial, she’d recognized self-blame—both were emotions she herself felt on a daily basis.
Right now, she was feeling so many things: admiration for all he’d accomplished and for his ambition, sorrow at the fact that he’d been so alone in that church just a couple of hours ago and now, incredibly close to him in a way she hadn’t expected.
Desmond’s voice had grown hoarse; he seemed to be transfixed by the portrait of his father and uncles. His jaw was so rigid that Val wanted to reach up and caress it into relaxation.
To comfort him.
“Europe is completely shot for us as a market. People won’t forget a tragedy that resulted in the loss of so many people. But the Gulf is still open, and young enough to throw money at us, and—” He stopped and cleared his throat.
“I have to do this,” he finished. “For him. For my father. I can’t let his legacy die, Val. I simply can’t. Not when—” His eyes were dark pools that glimmered in the candlelight. Val waited breathlessly for him to finish what he was going to say, but he turned away from her with visible effort. “Come on. Our food’s getting cold.”
They sat down again, companionably close this time, and ate from the same dish, their fingers brushing occasionally. They didn’t speak until the food was nearly gone.
“I suppose,” he said, with the first hint of humor she’d heard in his voice since they’d raced to the church for the memorial, “we should get to know each other, since we are supposed to be married.” He was clearly forcing levity back into the conversation, and the smirk on his face told her he was being playful. She decided, for his sake, not to push things, and instead matched his lighter tone.
“I’ve been trying not to think about it!”
“You should see your face,” he jeered. There was laughter in his voice, and she was glad for it. “Well. What are the most important things?”
“Family, religion, allergies…?”
“You’ve met them—” he gestured at the wall “—Orthodox, and mushrooms. Yourself?”
“Well, you’ve heard my story about my family. We’re Baptist, although I haven’t entered a church since my wedding. No allergies except cats.”
She paused, wanting desperately to segue into something less…serious. “I suppose we could talk about Sheikh Rashid again. And your deal.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Do you have to argue about everything?” she said crossly. “I said I would. Now, listen.”
He covered his mouth rather dramatically, and she rolled her eyes.
“Nostalgia,” she said.
Confusion crossed Desmond’s face. Val crossed her arms over her chest; her breasts were aching beneath the fabric that covered them. She forced herself to focus on Desmond.
“Bahr Al-Dahab,” she continued. “It means—”
“Sea of gold.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “It’s very glamorous, the concept of a nation built of a single material. Liquid gold, as it were. Your competitors have worn that idea out. But Sheikh Rashid, he loves history above all else. Bahr Al-Dahab is his beating heart, even more so than the king.”
Desmond’s eyes were darker than they’d been earlier, if that were possible. “Tell me more.”
“Ask him about the history of Bahr Al-Dahab and he’ll be delighted to tell you the story.”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Desmond countered, and his mouth curved up slightly. “You have the loveliest voice, you know.”
He needed to stop saying things like that—and in that voice. Talking was calming her down, cooling the blood that still thrummed in her ears, her temples, and he was undoing it. “The country grew from an historic port city that thrived in the late sixteen hundreds and early seventeen hundreds. Merchants from Asia, Africa and even Europe would sail to its shores, bringing with them myriad goods and stories, and exporting baskets of the most beautiful pearls—there’s a luminous, creamy color that’s unique to the region.”
“All right,” he said, after a moment.
“There’s stunning architecture that has been preserved there better than anywhere else in the Gulf—souks in their original settings and an enormous harbor. There’s a pearl festival every year to celebrate the origins of the nation. You don’t hear much about us internationally because we’ve been overshadowed by our neighbors and their skyscrapers. Dubai. Qatar. Bahrain, even.”
“Yes, I know.”
“That’s what he cares about,” she said. “The legacy. An appreciation of what their fathers sacrificed. Every single person that pitches to him tries to sell him a vision of the future, without stopping to appreciate the past. And if you can focus on that, you’ll stand out.”
The words hung between them for a moment in the small space; Desmond looked at her keenly.
“Legacy,” he echoed.
“It’s strangely fitting, isn’t it?” she asked, and forced a smile, forced her trembling limbs to still. Why was he looking at her like that? “Consider what you’re doing for your father. After all, this is all for him.”
A muscle worked in the long column of his throat.
“I suppose,” he said a little hoarsely, and the naked sorrow was so vivid on his face that she completely pushed aside all reservations and offered her hand. He hesitated for only a moment, then shifted closer to her and took it.
They sat in silence for a moment in the cocoon of heat and cushions, and the look on his face was twice as intense as it’d been in the shadows of the jazz club. That same hot, irresistible, dreadful impulse that had taken her over just one night ago was prickling at her senses now, overcoming decorum, good sense, propriety, good taste—all of it was quickly fading…
It was different from last night. Then, it had been lust. Indulgence. Fun.
Now she felt as if something in her was cracking open to warmth. To light.
To possibility.
And a desire to comfort a man that she’d somehow grown to care for immensely, in a very short period of time.
“Desmond,” she said, as a warning, a final attempt to curtail whatever this was. But it didn’t come out as sternly as she’d intended; instead, it was more like a sigh. And then Desmond’s face was so close to hers, and his eyes were so very gentle, and she was tipping her lips up for the kiss he was offering.
Again.
* * *
They kissed until the moment faded into something that no longer made sense. When they were both breathless and hot, Val pulled back slowly, swollen lips parted, and sank back against the cushions of the low sofa. Yes, he knew he didn’t deserve her, but she was here, and she wanted to comfort him. As long as he didn’t let it spark anything else…
Right?
Desire was hot in her eyes, mixed with an uncertainty that touched him. What was she uncertain about? Him? His desire for her? Allowing a man who was grieving his father to kiss her after a night of remembrance?
“Desmond…” she started to say, and he knew he had to stop this from getting any more emotionally intimate.
“Listen,” he said huskily, staring deep into her eyes so that she’d believe the lie. “I’m fine. It was a long time ago.”
“I know, but—”
Desmond’s response was to pull his sweater over his head, as much to hide his face as anything else. When he dropped it on the floor he saw that it’d worked. Her eyes were clouded with want and she shifted as if uncomfortable, pressing her knees together and fiddling with the belt on her robe. The movement drew his eyes to her body, where the thin material of the robe clung to her waist and hips. Her full breasts were especially prominent beneath the fabric. It brought to mind the way they hung heavy and hot when they were exposed, the way her nipples grew hard and long and almost unbearably sensitive when touched or sucked.
Had they really only had one night together? He felt like he knew her body so well already. He brushed a hand where the material gaped on her legs then ran it up the silken length of her thigh.
He remembered the intensity of the first time he’d touched her, and amid his growing arousal he felt a pinch of nostalgia. It was never going to be like this again, these two nights in London. They’d got so close, so fast. And now she was looking at him, with that heavy-lidded gaze, and if he didn’t know better—
He didn’t complete the thought, because Val rose to her knees on the sofa, leaned forward, and kissed him. Hesitantly at first, asking for permission, and when his hands slipped up almost automatically to grip her waist, her hips, she parted her lips and there it was again, that honeyed sweetness that he knew would nudge at the edges of his dreams for nights to come. Though it would never be better than it was in person. Her tongue slid against his and he tasted spice and mint. He pressed forward to kiss her harder but she pulled back a little and shook her head, her eyes glittering.
“No,” she said, and her voice was husky with want. “Let me, Desmond. Please. ”
Damn, her voice sent fire straight down to his groin and he was hard, so hard. Her eyes flicked down to where he swelled against his trousers and her tongue skimmed her lower lip. Her hand followed and huffed out breath. “Val. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she whispered against his lips, and then she gasped a little when his hands tightened on her hips. He yanked her forward and she rose to her knees and straddled his hips. “I just… I want to relax. I want this …”
So she’d felt it too, that lightning-bright connection. And she’d come looking for him . His chest sparked.
She’d come to him. She’d come to him because she wanted him badly enough to shed her natural reticence and to ask for it. “Val…”
“Please stop talking,” she said softly.
She drew the crimson silk of her dressing gown from her shoulders in a seductive shimmy that had him catching his breath. She was naked beneath it, as he suspected. Her skin was warm and scented. Desmond shifted back to accommodate her, and her breath vented in a low hiss as she rubbed that slick, sensitive part of her against the roughness of his trousers. She threw her head back, eyes closed, and he was almost wild with desire. If he couldn’t bury himself deep in her in about thirty seconds, he was going to—
“Touch me.”
She took his wrist and guided it down to where he knew she was swollen and aching. She swore, and a shudder went through her that made her breasts shake. He passed his thumb against her center, and the sound she let out…