‘Maybe.’ He slid his hand possessively around her waist. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
MOODILY, SULEIMAN GLANCED around the vast art gallery. The cavernous space and endlessly high ceilings made him think that this might have been a warehouse in a former life, though the place certainly bore no resemblance to its humbler origins.
On white walls hung vast canvases sporting naïve splashes of colour which a five-year-old child could have achieved—all bearing price tags far beyond the reach of most ordinary mortals. Stick-thin women and geeky-looking men in glasses stood gazing up at them in rapt concentration, while waitresses dressed like extravagant birds offered trays of exotically coloured cocktails.
He still couldn’t believe he was here. He couldn’t believe that Sara had brought him here to look at these dull paintings and meet dull people, when she could have been in bed with him instead. He had been cooking her a meal. Didn’t she realise that he’d never cooked for a woman before? But instead of switching off her phone and treating him with a little gratitude, she had brought him to this pretentious place. Had given him a plastic glass of very mediocre wine and then had disappeared to greet someone with one of those ridiculous air-kisses he so despised.
She needed to work, she had told him. Just as it seemed she always needed to work. She never stopped. It was as if she couldn’t bear to get off the treadmill she’d leapt back on with such enthusiasm when they’d returned from Paris.
He watched her cross the room. The shimmer of her golden dress caressed her body as she moved, while the sinful blonde hair streamed over her shoulders in a silken cascade. Men were watching her, as they had been watching from the moment they’d arrived—even the geeky ones, who didn’t particularly look as if they were into women. He wondered if she was aware of that. Was that why she had worn that skimpy little dress—to draw attention to her beauty? Was that what made her walk with such a seductive sway, or was that simply a consequence of wearing those indecently sexy boots?
Why had he bought her those damned boots?
She had stopped to talk to someone and her head was tilted upwards as she listened to what he was saying to her—a tall man with cold grey eyes and a chiselled face. They seemed to be having some kind of animated discussion. They acted as if they knew each other well and Suleiman’s eyes narrowed. Who was he? He smiled with polite dismissal at the woman who had attached herself to his side like glue, and walked across the gallery until he had reached them.
Sara looked up as he approached and he noticed that her cheeks had gone very pink. Had her male companion made her blush? he wondered. He felt the twist of something unfamiliar in his gut. Something dark and nebulous.
‘Oh, Suleiman.’ She smiled. ‘There you are.’
‘Here I am.’ He looked at the man who stood beside her, with a questioning expression. ‘Hello.’
He saw the way Sara’s teeth had begun to dig into her bottom lip. Was she nervous, he wondered—and if so, why?
‘I’d like to introduce you to my boss,’ she was saying. ‘This is Gabe Steel and he owns the best and biggest advertising agency in London. Gabe—this is Suleiman Abd al-Aziz and I’ve known...’ She began to blush. ‘Well, I’ve known Suleiman ever since I was a little girl.’
There was a split second as the two men eyed one another before briefly shaking hands and Suleiman found his fingers grasped with a bone-crushing strength which equalled his own. So this was her boss. The tycoon he had heard so much about and the man who had lent her his cottage at Christmas. A man with cold grey eyes and the kind of presence which was attracting almost as much attention from the women in the room as Suleiman himself.
One thought jarred uncomfortably in his head.
Why had he lent her his cottage?
‘Good to meet you, Suleiman,’ said Gabe. ‘So tell me, was she a good little girl—or was she very naughty?’
Suleiman froze. He tried telling himself that this was the normal, jokey kind of statement which existed among work colleagues in the west—but his heart was stubbornly refusing to listen to reason. Instead, his years of conditioning, which had resulted in a very rigid way of thinking, now demanded to be heard. Instead of joining in with the banter, he found himself thinking that this man Steel—no matter how exalted his position—was speaking most impertinently about the Princess of Dhi’ban.
Unless...
Suleiman’s heart began to hammer painfully against his ribcage. Unless the relationship went deeper than that of mere workmates. He swallowed. Was it possible that Gabe Steel was the other man she had slept with—the man who had taken her virginity? Hadn’t she told him on Christmas Eve that it was Gabe Steel’s cottage and that she was waiting for her lover?
Had Gabe Steel been her lover?
For a moment he was so overcome by a sweep of jealousy so powerful that he couldn’t speak, and when he did his words felt like little splinters of metal being expelled from his mouth.
‘I don’t think that the princess would wish me to divulge secrets from her past,’ he said repressively.
‘No, of course not.’ Gabe looked startled, before flashing him an easy smile. ‘So tell me, what do you think of the paintings?’
‘You want my honest opinion?’ Suleiman questioned.
‘Suleiman’s not a great connoisseur of art,’ put in Sara hastily, before shooting him a furious look. She put her hand on his arm and pressed it—the sharp dig undeniably warning him not to elaborate. ‘Are you, darling?’
Suleiman felt a cold fury begin to rise within him. She was speaking to him as if he were some tame little lapdog she had brought along with her. But he could see that causing a scene here would serve no purpose, except to delay their departure and ensure her fury. Clearly she danced obediently to this man Steel’s tune—and when they got home he would do her the favour of pointing it out.
So he merely gave a bland smile as he reached out and drew her against him, a proprietorial thumb moving very deliberately over her ribcage. He felt her shiver beneath his touch and he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he looked at her boss.
‘Sara’s right, of course. I have never been able to understand the penchant for spending vast sums of money on modern art. Call me old-fashioned—but I prefer something which doesn’t look as if a cat has regurgitated its supper all over the canvas.’
‘Oh, I think we could certainly call you old-fashioned, Suleiman,’ said Sara in a high, bright voice.
‘But I can see that your campaign has been successful,’ conceded Suleiman, forcing a smile. ‘Judging by the amount of people here tonight.’
‘Yes, we’re very pleased with the turnout,’ said Gabe. ‘Much of which is down to the talent of your girlfriend, of course. It was her artwork which made people sit up and start taking notice.’ He smiled. ‘Sara’s one of the best creatives I have.’
‘I’m sure she is. I just hope you have a good replacement ready to step in to fill her shoes,’ said Suleiman.
He
