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She could tell him now that she felt the same way, that she too had fallen and fallen hard, but there was still too much to think about, too much history to get over, too many things to forgive.
She started to shake her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Please,’ he implored. ‘Please think about it.’
He was so different now. This was a man used to getting what he wanted. All he had to do was click his fingers and people came running. Yet he was asking her now, pleading with her to reconsider.
She could see what this was costing him, could see the pain and uncertainty in his features. It was a different side of Khaled—a much more vulnerable and human side than she’d seen before.
Maybe he was speaking the truth. Maybe he did love her. But how could she be sure? After all the half-truths and secrets, it was all too much to process.
‘Think about it,’ he repeated, sensing her own bewilderment. ‘I’ll leave you now. Take your time; call me on the intercom when you’ve made up your mind. The airport has reopened. I’ll have my jet put on standby. If you still want to leave, you can leave immediately. On the other hand, if you decide to stay…’
His words trailed off and she nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said, thinking how inadequate that sounded after such a conversation.
He smiled and pressed his lips to her forehead. Then he turned and left, pulling the door softly closed behind him.
It seemed like years since she’d been in the workshop, yet it was really only yesterday. Azizah had still not shown up, so there was no opportunity to distract herself with small talk and minor housekeeping issues. Instead, as she prowled amongst the worktables bearing machines all now empty and silent, her thoughts kept churning, going over and over trying to digest the impact of Khaled’s surprise declaration, trying to fit all the pieces together.
He loved her.
She loved him.
He wanted to marry her.
She wanted to get away.
Or did she?
Her reason for leaving was to keep herself safe, to protect herself from Khaled’s influence. But what would she be saving when she’d already lost her heart? What more was there to risk when her body wanted nothing more than to be pressed close next to his?
Would it be so wrong to stay and marry him? To have him as her partner, in bed and out of it for her entire life? Was that not preferable to turning her back on their love and living without him, alone somewhere and full of regrets for what might have been?
It was still so difficult to think, but maybe this was how it was supposed to be—a decision that should be made not with the head, but with the heart. What could she lose by doing what her heart knew instinctively was right?
In the corner of the room the wedding dress that had brought her to Jebbai still hung on the mannequin, its brilliant beaded and jewelled bodice gleaming even through the clear protective dust jacket. The sight of it brought a smile to her face, even in the midst of her inner turmoil.
If she’d achieved anything in Jebbai, it was this gown. It was beautiful, the most beautiful she’d ever seen and most certainly the most beautiful she’d ever made. The design was exquisite and, thanks to the skill and dedication of her assistants, the workmanship second to none.
And it could still be hers…
Sensation shimmied down her spine at the possibility and she bit down hard on her bottom lip as carefully she peeled back the protective layer, revealing the full splendour of the dress.
It had been made to her measurements, certainly, but with not one fitting. And the real test of any garment was not how it looked hanging up, but how it looked on the person it had been designed for. How well had they transformed a bare set of measurements and metres of fabric into a gown for a real woman? There was still the possibility she might leave Jebbai and never know.
There was only one way to find out.
The dress slipped sensually over her skin, cool and satin smooth after she’d stripped off the cotton shirt and chinos she’d worn for the return journey. There was weight in the gown, much more than was apparent at first glance, but the weight felt balanced in the long skirt that flared out from her hips. She did up as many of the pearl fastenings at her back as she could, thinking it would be so much easier with someone to help her but at the same time thankful there was no one to witness her folly.
There was a full-length mirror in her walk-in wardrobe. And heeled shoes. She hitched up the heavy train and headed for her bedroom, feeling heady with both exhilaration and recklessness.
She saw it propped up against her telephone as soon as she walked through the door into the office. She’d completely missed the envelope when she’d first arrived, too preoccupied talking to Khaled, her back to the desk. But from the door the angle was perfect and she could not miss it.
Who was writing to her here? Unless it was Gianfranco, although it was more usual for him just to send a fax. Curious, she picked up the envelope on the way through to her dressing room. The outside gave nothing away, the typewritten address bland and uninformative. Likewise the absence of a return address.
She shrugged and flipped the envelope down onto her bed as she passed. The letter could wait. First to the shoes. She searched her wardrobe, where her gear had been returned since her aborted attempt to leave yesterday, and hauled out the highest pair of heels she’d brought. They were brightly coloured sandals, hardly a good match, but they’d give her the extra height she needed to get the best impression of the fall of the dress.
She slipped them on, smoothing down the material, impatient now for her first glance in the mirror. She twisted her hair into a knot on the top of her head, took a deep breath and stepped in front of the mirror.
