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More colours lit the sky, green, blue, as cheers from the onlookers filled the spaces between the blasts. Children squealed, not in terror, but in delight.
Fireworks, she realised the instant after she’d plastered herself to his chest; she was getting scared witless over a few fireworks.
And look where it had got her! She was practically sitting in his lap.
She wrenched back her head, away from the comforting rhythm of his heart, the rock-steady safety of his chest, trying to peel herself away without further touching him. If only he’d relax his arms!
‘You make it difficult for me not to touch you,’ he said with a kernel of humour that had been noticeably absent in his voice until now, ‘if you insist on throwing yourself at me like that.’
‘I thought…I mean…’ It would sound so stupid that she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. She pushed back against the circle of his arms, still painfully aware that fabric didn’t count for much when your thighs were pressed this close to his. ‘Please, you can let me go now.’
‘And have you get frightened again? Maybe you should relax,’ he suggested. ‘Enjoy the fireworks.’
She looked up at him, the strong planes of his face thrown into sharp relief by the crazy colours exploding in the sky. ‘What’s going on?’
‘My people are welcoming back their sheikh.’
‘You’re kidding. They do this every time you come back?’
He laughed, rich and soft, a sound that reminded her of the smoothest coffee and cream. ‘My people are very excited about the wedding and their new queen. This is the start of a month-long celebration in Jebbai.’
‘Then I suggest,’ she said, levering herself further away from him, ‘that it’s not such a great idea for your people to see you like this with your bride’s dress designer.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he said, releasing her all the same so she could scramble back to the opposite side of the wide leather seat. ‘My people are under no misapprehension as to who you are.’
She looked at him sharply. He was speaking in riddles again and she didn’t want to play his game. She stayed silent as they continued through the city, amazed at the contrast of the old and the new; the ancient-looking mosques, timeless and elegant, the piercing skyscrapers, modern architectural master-pieces—Hebra had it all.
Eventually the car slowed to a crawl outside a pair of massive timber and iron gates swinging slowly open, which thudded resoundingly shut behind them as the car pulled into a large courtyard. A small w
elcoming party stood waiting.
He took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said before the doors both sides were pulled open and he dropped her hand to alight.
She stepped out onto the ancient cobbled courtyard before the tall palace that was to be her home for the next four weeks. It was magnificent even in the dark of night with spotlights strategically placed to illuminate the walls and the towers. In the light of day it would be spectacular, its creamy walls studded with mother-of-pearl and tortoiseshell, giving a sumptuous appearance and texture.
Khaled’s hand pressed against the small of her back, and she let him guide her to meet the small group waiting for them. A tall man in traditional dress, his face lean and hollow, his beard greying and neatly trimmed and his eyes bearing a strong resemblance to Khaled’s, stepped down to greet them.
‘Saleem,’ said Khaled, embracing the man, ‘let me introduce you to the famous designer, Sapphire Clemenger, from the House of Bacelli in Milan. Sapphy, this is my cousin, Saleem.’
Saleem took her hand, bowing over it graciously before he raised his head and looked up at her, the sudden glint in his eyes sending ice-cold spiders crawling down her spine. ‘Welcome to Jebbai,’ he said, his mouth curved into what she supposed was intended to pass as a smile.
She’d never experienced anything less welcoming, but managed somehow to crack the layer of ice he’d submerged her under enough to dredge up a smile of her own and murmur her thanks before the rest of the party was briefly introduced. Finally a shy-looking young woman was presented to her.
‘This is Azizah,’ Khaled told her as the girl bowed. ‘She will be your maid.’
She smiled again, much more genuinely this time, and took the girl’s hand. ‘So you are to help me with the dressmaking?’
‘No,’ interrupted Khaled, before the girl could respond. ‘You will have a staff of ten to help you construct the dress. They will be here first thing in the morning for your instruction. Azizah is your personal maid. She will do whatever you ask.’
‘That’s hardly necessary,’ she protested. ‘I won’t need an entire staff to make one dress.’
‘You have only four weeks and you were the one who thought that was not enough time—remember? So, you have staff. Now, let me show you to your accommodation.’ His hand at her back, he urged her up the wide steps to the large keyhole-style opening leading inside.
‘Surely the girl can show her to her quarters,’ Saleem’s heavily accented English broke in. ‘There are matters of state to discuss.’
Khaled wheeled and turned on his cousin. ‘Five minutes will make no difference. I will show Miss Clemenger to her quarters. Then I will meet you in the library.’
She shuddered as he directed her inside the palace. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, surprising her by even noticing.
