he had chosen to do for the auction, whatever his reasons for drawing back from wanting to make love to Casey, wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.
* * *
As soon as breakfast had been delivered the following morning she went back to bed and hid her head under the pillow. What she thought that would achieve Casey had no idea. The day had to be faced, even if the night before had been the utmost in humiliation. Tossing her pillow to the floor, she sat up cross-legged on the bed. Touching her fingertips to her mouth, where Raffa’s sharp black stubble had abraded her, she realised her lips were still tender and swollen from his kiss.
His kiss…
Closing her eyes, she relived every moment of the embrace, quivering with arousal. And quickly jerked herself round. Sometimes her body frightened her. The way it reacted so violently to thoughts of Raffa—as if it knew something she didn’t—was truly alarming.
With a sigh, she shook her head, forced to accept that nothing, not even her own fear of intimacy, could stop her wanting him.
Leaping out of bed, she stood hugging herself as she thought things through. How bad did Raffa have to be for this longing to go away? He was no good for her. He lived his life behind a guarded façade, thinking money was the answer to everything. But when the chips were down…
She didn’t want to think about the auction. And she had to eat to get through the day. She looked at the delicious food and juices waiting on the table. Maybe if she ate breakfast… maybe if she went through the motions of a normal day…her heart wouldn’t ache so much and she could screw her business head back on.
She was so tense by the time she sat down at the table she didn’t even notice the fabulous view over the marina and the pearlescent ocean beyond. Having poured a cup of fresh mint tea, she unfurled a copy of that morning’s A’Qaban Times— and got no further than the headline.
Last bid opened is from ruling Sheikh, who promises to double record-breaking auction proceeds.
A groan escaped Casey’s throat. Putting the paper down, she pushed her plate away and stood up. Suddenly she wasn’t hungry any more.
Raffa was on the polo field, his office told her.
She didn’t have an outfit for polo, but she did have her various purchases stowed in the wardrobe. Selecting the modest skirt and cardigan she had bought for work, along with her low heeled office shoes, she decided on no make-up and hair tied back. This was not an outing but a penance, and perhaps the last appointment she would ever have with Raffa. She had been far too quick to jump to conclusions.
But he had thrown money at the auction rather than taking part, Casey reflected in the hotel limousine on the way to the polo field. That being the case, once she had made this apology she wasn’t sure they had much left to say to each other. How Raffa lived his life was no business of hers, but somehow she had imagined them being close in a place where all the jewels and couture clothes in the world made no difference. And now she had to face the fact that wasn’t so.
CASEY wasn’t sure quite what to do when she arrived at the polo field. Seeing as the hotel driver was instantly recognised by the security guards, she decided it was best to ask him to take her as far as he could to avoid any run-ins with Raffa’s bodyguards.
Having thanked the driver, Casey left the car and walked up to the fence bordering the field of play, where she stood leaning over it. The match had already started, and her gaze was immediately drawn to Raffa. Wearing pale breeches and a dark shirt, he had a ferocious-looking face-guard in place and was altogether a formidable sight. She remembered reading somewhere that a polo ball could travel at up to a hundred miles an hour—which explained the guard, as well as the chunky leather knee protectors strapped to his legs.
Legs which were currently wrapped around the quivering flanks of a sweating mare. She was transfixed by his strength and control. If she hadn’t been half in love with him already, Raffa at full gallop, wielding a mallet with such remarkable skill, would have been enough. She moved closer, drawn in by the speed and power of the game and wanting to speak to him when he dismounted in the paddock at the end of the chukka.
As he pulled off his helmet and ruffled his thick black hair, he confirmed her opinion that in close-fitting breeches Raffa
was prodigious in every sense of the word. She blushed selfconsciously when he glanced her way. Having weighed up the leggy blondes hanging round him, though, she decided her apology must wait.
‘Excuse me, Ms Michaels?’
She started guiltily, finding a security guard standing at her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a pass,’ she hurried to explain. ‘But I do work for His Majesty.’
The man waited until she had finished before politely informing her that His Majesty had asked him to escort her to the pavilion, where she could sit in the shade.
‘Oh, I see…’ Casey smiled and relaxed, and then glanced anxiously towards Raffa, who was busy checking on his polo pony and didn’t see her looking.
A shady pavilion would be just the place for him to fire her, Casey reflected.
Or he might just be being considerate, her sensible inner voice suggested, as the sun was blazing down.
Thanking the messenger, she followed the man towards the large marquee. She paused on the threshold, seeing it was full of noisy, confident people—the sort of people she designed campaigns for but never mixed with.
‘Ms Michaels?’ the man escorting Casey prompted.
She couldn’t keep him waiting, Casey reasoned. Bracing herself, she walked inside.
The interior of the tent was the epitome of luxury, with large squashy sofas upholstered in cream linen, and any number of easy chairs gathered around low, pale wood tables. The whole area was temperature controlled, and there were beautiful flower arrangements everywhere. There was even a bar and a buffet, with waiter service.
Stepping over colourful rugs, she was tempted to linger by plump cushions whose pattern reminded her of her beautiful auction purchase. In bolder colours, perhaps, the cushions boasted the same intricate pattern as her shawl. There was even a giant screen on which to watch the match, though the game was taking place only a few yards away.
It seemed most of Raffa’s guests preferred to collect around the bar and the buffet table, in small, tight-knit intimate groups, Casey noticed, deciding she would keep to herself. But she was soon restless. She wanted to see the match—and not on a giant screen.
‘Would it be possible for me to watch the match outside the pavilion?’ she asked the guard before he left.
‘Not on the screen in here?’ He seemed surprised.
What was the point in that? Casey wondered. When she could watch it just as well on a screen in her hotel room? ‘I’d prefer to sit outside, if it’s not too much trouble for you…’
‘No trouble at all,’ the man said. ‘But the sun is very strong.’ Sensing her disappointment, he added, ‘Perhaps if we put a chair for you beneath the awning you would still be in the shade, as His Majesty has requested…’
The
