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All it now needed was a fitting or two and the seams could be completed, the length tweaked and the finishing touches made. And all Khaled had to do was agree to her request to allow her just one hour with the bride, instead of continually frustrating her with excuses and deferments.
He’d hardly spoken to her since that strange night a week ago in the gardens when his barely restrained fury had been a palpable thing and his cryptic words still haunted her. For some reason she’d upped the ante on his emotions that night in a way that made her feel that somehow, in some strange and inexplicable way, she was responsible for the death of his parents.
But that was crazy. She’d grown up on the other side of the world. She’d never had anything to do with the royal family of Jebbai. It didn’t make sense.
She tried to push these thoughts aside as she sat at her desk, writing postcards in the hour before lunch. She’d sent her staff home early as, until Khaled agreed to a fitting, there was nothing more for them to do. She’d already completed brief greetings for her family, her mother and sisters back in Australia. It was the last postcard she wavered over.
What should she say to Paolo?
Her mobile phone was useless out here and in a way she was glad. She wanted Paolo to contact her first. But he hadn’t made any attempt. They hadn’t spoken since their argument in Milan and somehow ‘the weather’s fine, wish you were here’ didn’t cut it. So why couldn’t she think of anything to write?
Part of her wanted to reach out and repair the damage to their relationship. The other part of her was still angry with him. He’d scared her half mad with his predictions of disaster in Jebbai, done his best to put her off going. And without offering a shred of evidence to support his crazy claims.
Without a doubt Khaled was a force to be reckoned with. Certainly he had issues with the tragic death of his parents, but was that so unusual?
Whatever, surely it should be easier to recall exactly how Paolo looked while she attempted to write this postcard? Instead her thoughts were infused with the shadow of a tall, dark-eyed man, brooding and magnetic, emphatic and compulsive. Why did he come to mind so easily when pictures of Paolo were proving so difficult to summon? Why was it so hard to forget about him?
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. ‘Come in,’ she c
alled without looking up, expecting Azizah to be returning from some errand or advising her that the midday meal was ready.
‘Am I interrupting you?’
Her head snapped up to where he stood inside the door, looking down at her. She shivered. He hadn’t been in her rooms since the day she’d arrived. Somehow the large room seemed shrunken with him in it. He strode closer to the desk, pouncing on the postcard she was toying with. She hadn’t managed to get further than the address and ‘Dear Paolo’. A nerve in his cheek twitched. Her heart jumped wildly in her chest. They’d never discussed Paolo by name so how would Khaled react to seeing her postcard addressed to him? And would he recall their differences as clearly and as vehemently as had Paolo?
‘Missing your boyfriend?’
Her blood formed an icy crust. ‘Who said he was my boyfriend?’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘Fair question,’ he said. ‘Maybe “lover” would be more appropriate.’
Her knuckles tightened as she screwed her fingers tighter around her pen. ‘I haven’t finished that.’
‘On the contrary, you haven’t started it. Nothing to say after so long apart?’
She kicked up her chin. She wasn’t going to discuss Paolo and their relationship with anybody, least of all with Khaled. ‘The dress is just about complete,’ she said, switching topics. ‘When are you going to agree to my request for a fitting with the bride?’
He flicked the card back down onto the desk. ‘She knows what you’re doing. There’s no rush.’
‘On the contrary,’ she said, reiterating his own words for emphasis, ‘there’s every reason to rush. You have two weeks until this wedding and if I can complete this gown now, that’s one major thing out of the way and then I can go home. I need just one fitting with the bride and my work is almost done.’
He lunged towards the desk and spread his arms down wide around her, his face dipping closer to hers. ‘Are you in such a hurry to return to your lover? Why so, when he has made no attempt to contact you in all the time you have been here?’
‘How do you know he hasn’t?’
‘Has he?’ he challenged.
She refused to let her gaze fall. She would not be drawn into whatever game Khaled was playing.
‘The dress is almost ready,’ she repeated. ‘When do I get my fitting?’
‘Show me,’ he said.
She was grateful for the opportunity to get up from her desk and burn up some of her nervous tension, if only by walking to the next room. She led the way into the workroom, where the almost completed garment sat on the model set up according to the measurements provided. Even on something as in animate as a headless arrangement of metal and padding the dress was sensational. She felt a surge of pride just looking at it. Together with the team that Khaled had assembled for her, she’d turned a rough sketch into a dress that would turn its wearer into a princess. It would be perfect.
Or it could be, if only she could be guaranteed a fitting before the big day.
‘Here it is,’ she said. ‘Now, when do I get my fitting?’
