I get out, overwhelmed by the noise and colours. A man comes up to me, standing too close. “I carry your bags. Ten Euros.”
“Lo Shokran,” I reply with a frown, shaking my head.
Myles, who has come around the car like a shot, raises an eyebrow at me. He doesn’t say anything else, though I think I glimpse a smile on his face as he opens the back of the car and takes out the bags.
Yes. Right. I am business Zara. I can do this. If this is the hotel, I need to sort things out for us. It’s my job, after all. For now.
A man in a suit jacket the same colour as the hotel, with the logo embroidered on the breast pocket, stands by a pair of tall, narrow doors, scanning the roiling crowd. I wave him over.
“Hello. We’re checking in? Mr Brandon?”
The man’s eyes widen. “Of course!” He calls out, beckoning, and two other employees come running, taking our bags and ushering us through the tall, narrow doors, which close behind us.
And all at once we’re enveloped in calm.
The hotel lobby is huge and spacious, pierced metal lanterns hanging from the carved and vaulted wooden ceiling. Plush groupings of furniture sit on soft rugs next to polished wooden tables, plants adding touches of green. There’s a tiled walkway with stone pillars and, beyond the long French doors, I glimpse a courtyard and blue water. The space smells of orange blossom and is quietly luxurious, utterly relaxing after the chaos outside.
A young man comes over with a tray containing two drinks in tall glasses, the rims frosted. “Juice, madame?” He offers the tray. I take one, glad of it for my parched throat. Myles takes the other, and for a moment it feels as though he might clink it with mine.
Then I realise that what he actually wants is for me to check us in, and I’m staring at him like an idiot instead. I mentally slap myself and head across the lobby towards the check-in desk. Our luggage is already on a trolley, waiting. I speak to yet another pleasant young man at the desk, and before I know it Myles and I are being whisked upstairs to the rooftop.
The hotel is laid out around a central courtyard filled with lush gardens and a long pool, a pillared walkway around all sides. The ground floor is taken up by restaurants and the spa, then the next two levels are hotel rooms, all overlooking the courtyard.
But the roof is something different. It’s flat, like most of the traditional architecture here, and one side of the square is taken up by a restaurant. There’s a bar as well, and another pool area. And there are three private suites.
Myles has one of them.
The young man leads us along a narrow walkway lined with roses and bougainvillea on one side, then past a small garden terrace. He pauses to unlock a door and ushers us inside.
The suite is spacious, furnished with angular modern sofas in shades of grey, pale silk hanging at the long windows. Yet the pointed archways and plaster walls are pure Morocco, as are the tiled floors and soft rugs underfoot. It’s utterly luxurious, a far cry from the simplicity of the apartments at La Coeur. Yet I miss being there, miss the view of the ocean, the way it felt as though we were on the edge of the world. My mind wanders to more erotic places, and I pull it back with an effort, realising the young man is speaking to me.
Myles is looking at me, amusement in his grey gaze, his lips curving. I try not to think about how those lips felt on mine.
“Are you all right, madame? I just wanted to know if the bed is to your liking?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I understand the humour in Myles’s eyes now. The bed is beautiful. It’s huge, the headboard inlaid carved wood, the linens spotless white. Red rose petals are scattered across it, more roses on the pillows. Oh God.
The young man thinks that Myles and I are a couple.
I want to correct him, but I also want to get out of here, and it just seems like an unnecessary conversation. “It’s lovely,” I say. “Looks very comfortable. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
God. That’s probably laying it on a bit thick. I nod and smile as the tour continues, through the plush marble bathroom with a huge tub sunk into the floor, filled with hot water already, more rose petals floating on the surface, candles flickering in holders. I don’t dare look at Myles. We emerge, eventually, onto a private terrace. There’s an elegant wooden table and chairs, metal lanterns hanging above. I peer over the trellis. Beyond the rooftops I glimpse an open square full of people and market stalls.
“Is that the medina?” I ask.
“Madame, we are in the medina,” the young man says. “But yes, you can see the main square from here.”
It’s fascinating, and all at once I want to be down there in the crowds, exploring. Something in this city sings to me.
“If that’s all, I shall leave you to it.”
I turn around. The young man, after a small bow, leaves the terrace by way of a gate in the high wooden fence surrounding it. And it’s just me and Myles.
“Right,” I say, endeavouring to sound businesslike, even though being alone with him makes my heart hurt and I can’t look him in the eye. “I know you have your meeting soon, so I’ll go and find my room. I’ve made you dinner reservations at the restaurant, but if you prefer, I can have it served in here. Unless you’re planning on going out?”
I dare a glance at him.
His brows are drawn together, but it’s as though he’s uncertain about something rather than cross with me. Probably trying to figure out how to let me go once we get back to London. I still can’t believe I let things get to this point.
