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A crease formed between his brows. “Yes?”
“Are you suggesting you don’t believe me? Do you really think I’d go through all this if there was any doubt that you’re the father?”
The boat engines purred to life and, as it accelerated at its top speed towards the coastline, Emma lost her footing. She lurched forward. Rafiq reacted fast, snaking his hands out and catching her around the waist. In the circumstances, his reaction was highly inappropriate, but the more spectacularly rude Emma was to him, the more he felt his need for her increase.
He held her against him, staring down at her, watching as awareness flashed through her like a visible wave. Her face flushed, her pupils dilated, her breath started to come in shallow rasps… it was obvious that she hated herself for wanting him; it was an unforgivable betrayal to the sister she clearly adored, but want him she still did. And yet, he’d be a fool to push it. No matter how much he felt the same desire scorching his body, he had to control it. For both of them.
It was now blindingly imperative to get airborne. “Go and pack, Emma. The jet’s been put on alert. We will depart as soon as we can.”
He obviously couldn’t wait to get back to Cass. He might have said it was to confirm the pregnancy, but surely no man could really resist Cassandra’s charms for long. As Emma emptied the contents of her drawer back into her bag, she told herself that she was just emotional. It had been a huge worry, tracking down her sister’s wayward lover, and now she’d done her duty, she could almost wash her hands of the whole thing.
Only, she didn’t know she’d ever be able to forget her body’s treacherous reaction to the despicable Sheikh Rafiq Al Sadini. All she could hope was that she’d mistaken her feelings. Yes! A triumphant smile lit up her face. Of course that was it. She was just overflowing with emotional energy; had been since Cass had confided in her. So some of that energy had just mistaken itself for attraction.
The theory held for all of thirty minutes. Once the boat had docked and she’d made a hasty and patchy explanation to Becky, and gone ashore, she’d seen Rafiq again. And her body did crazy things. With one of the melodramatic sighs she generally reserved for her heroines, she followed in the wake of the eminent prince. Even his walk was sexy, she thought glumly, as he led them away from the boat.
Two limousines were waiting in the car park, and she was relieved to see that he sat in a separate vehicle to hers. Or, at least, she told herself she was relieved. It gave her time to pull her thoughts together as they made the trip through Athens, to the airport.
The convoy bypassed the airport car park and, pausing for the briefest of moments to show credentials at a boom gate, was shepherded down a side street and onto the tarmac. Emma gripped the handle of the car door as a huge airplane accelerated into the air, just above their cars. She looked across at the man sitting opposite for reassurance, but he had obviously been trained not to interact with the Sheikh’s guests.
It was bracingly hot in Athens, with none of the pleasant sea breeze to take the edge off the sun’s intensity. As she stepped out of the limousine straight onto the tarmac, she wished she’d thought to change out of her suit. Instead, she settled for removing the jacket, aware that the white blouse strained a little at her breasts. It would have to do until they were on board and she could find something else to wear.
“Passport?” An official approached her, his hand extended.
“Oh, right, passport,” she exclaimed, furrowing her brow, trying to remember where she’d stashed it. “Just a second.” Face glowing, she crouched down and checked the side pockets of her luggage, her frown deepening when she didn’t feel its familiar binding.
“Is this your first international trip?” Rafiq’s voice was laced with sarcasm and she glared at him.
“I’m not used to packing in such a hurry,” she responded, shooting him daggers. God, she felt like a mess. Her braid was coming loose, strands of hair were plastered to her face which was perspiring a little as anxiety and heat combined to make her feel truly yucky.
“Perhaps your handbag?” He prompted, nodding towards the Louis Vuitton satchel Cass had given her last Christmas.
Of course! She reached inside and pulled it out triumphantly, handing it over to the airport customs officer. He took it without cracking a smile, something which, ridiculously, was enough to make her feel one step closer to letting a full-blown rant rip.
But she held onto her temper, barely. They were almost on board, and soon, she’d be back in America, in her own home, with her beloved cat Minky. And Rafiq would be Cassandra’s problem.
“After you, Emma,” he sighed impatiently, waiting for her to walk up the narrow staircase ahead of him. She must have walked millions of staircases in her life, but knowing he was right behind her made her wobbly. She would have missed her step right at the top were it not for his firm hand around her waist.
He swore under his breath and the look he shot her could have killed. “You are the most impossibly clumsy woman I have ever known.”
She clamped down on her lip. She wasn’t one to complain, but his high-handed manner was wearing thin. “I’m hot, and tired,” she said honestly. She stepped inside the plan and was so awe-struck by the sheer opulence of its interior that she didn’t notice the way his expression turned contemplative.
Emma had surprised him with her statement. He was usually more considerate of his guests’ needs. Something about this woman seemed to rob him of his manners. Worse, he found himself thinking of very little but what she would be like, naked, in his bed. It was a line of thought far more appropriate to Mansour; Rafiq knew better than to allow his physical desires to control his behavior. He dropped his arm from around her waist and spoke in Arabic to one of the flight attendants. A few words and he had organized everything that would make her more comfortable.
“Emma, I apologize for not accommodating your needs better. Fatima will take you to a room where you will find some refreshments, and where you can change into something more comfortable. We have a few minutes before take-off only; I’m sure you can appreciate that I am eager to be underway.”
She followed the designated staff member through the plane – if it could even be called that! It was more of a luxury apartment with wings. The kind of lounge furniture that would be at home in a six star resort was angled towards a gigantic cinema screen. A dining table made of polished wood and decorated with lavish arrangements of flowers (she noted on closer inspection as she passed that they were screwed to the table), and carpet so plush that she wanted to lie down and go to sleep on it. Oh, how the other half lived, she thought with a wry twist of her lips. If nothing else, her sister’s little escapade had given her this insight which she could spin into several books. It was all grist to the mill for a writer like Emma Anderson.
The room Fatima led her to was as overwhelmingly grandiose as the rest of the plane. An enormous bed made up the centre, but there was lounge furniture in here too.
“Sheikh Rafiq and his family travel often. The plane must be comfortable.” Fatima, in an uncharacteristic gesture, spoke without having been addressed, sensing the pale American woman’s hesitation.
“This is beyond comfortable, don’t you think?”
Fatima’s smile was indulgent. “Do not forget, this is a royal craft.”
“Mmm.” Having seen his yacht, she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised, but she couldn’t help but wonder: at what point did these trappings cease to seem impressive? When did they become ordinary?
“Fatima, can I ask you something?” She colored, realizing she might be putting the other woman in a difficult position. “I don’t want to get you in trouble…”
