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She shuddered and forced her eyes open, staring out into the busy Via Monte Napoleone in an effort to banish the unwelcome pictures from her mind.
He was nothing to her. Nothing but another client and one who was marrying another woman—a sick woman if the indications were correct. So why would she imagine even for a second the thought of marrying such a man? And why did the images persist?
She had to focus on the bride and her gown. This would be her day and Sapphy would do all she could to make it the most special day in the world for her. ‘I’ll still need to meet her at some stage, of course,’ she said, turning away from the traffic at last. ‘I’ll need to do at least some fittings.’
‘We will deal with that in Jebbai. I have organised a studio for you. You can start work as soon as you arrive.’
‘In Jebbai?’ Warning bells rang loud in her mind. ‘But that’s somewhere out in the desert. You expect me to go there?’
‘Jebbai is an independent state. You have no need to fear. You will be safe while you are in my care. I guarantee that.’
‘But why can’t I do the job here? I have clients who will need me, I have access to all the fabrics…’
‘Gianfranco Bacelli has taken care of all that.’ He smiled, or was it just the way he tilted his head? ‘And you do want to meet the bride, don’t you?’
She paused, licked her dry lips. ‘I still haven’t agreed to do this.’
‘No?’ he asked, as if he believed she had no choice. ‘Then you have until Sunday to decide. We fly out Monday.’
CHAPTER TWO
SAPPHY let herself into her apartment, tired but at the same time exhilarated. While her body was tingling from her unexpected meeting with Signor Khaled, her mind was weighed down with uncertainty.
The proposal had come completely out of the blue, but given that her current collection and the shows were complete, the timing really couldn’t be better. Nevertheless, it would still be tight, designing and completing something special within four weeks.
If she agreed to go to Jebbai.
Jebbai.
Just the name was enough to conjure up exotic images of endless golden sand and swaying palm trees. But what did she really know about the desert kingdom other than that it was a small independent Arab state, landlocked by sand and that it had made its fortune with its rich oil reserves?
She flicked through her small pile of mail, finding nothing there compelling enough to open immediately and distract her thoughts, so she put the letters back down and moved to the glass doors overlooking her small balcony. She stepped out into the cool air, leaning her forearms on the railing, watching the people in the square below enjoying the surprisingly mild February evening, milling about talking to friends or drifting off to one of the restaurants lining the small square.
The commission was tempting, the location alluring, but there was something wholly unsettling about the man, something intangible that seemed to reach out and grab hold of her.
It wasn’t just his sultry dark looks, though now at last they were explained. She could see the Arab influence in his features and his bearing and even in the golden glow to his skin. As if he was made for the desert.
In normal circumstances his looks would have been enough to get him noticed, though they were hardly unsettling. What rattled her more was his brooding presence and the way his whole attitude spoke of thinly veiled contempt.
Why should he be angry with her? Unless he was driven by desperation to obtain the services of a designer in time for his wedding and her failure to immediately acquiesce to his demands had displeased him. No, thinking back, he’d seemed angry even when he entered the salon.
Angry and demanding.
Did she really want to fly off to some desert state with him? Did she want to be trapped with him in a vessel as small as a plane? He’d burned up the atmosphere in the salon. Sucked the air dry. Even a plane as large as a seven-four-seven would be hard-pressed to hold enough oxygen for them both.
As much as she was tempted by the commission, by the chance to experience the desert and of designing a wedding dress like nothing she’d ever done before, she certainly wasn’t keen on spending another moment in Signor Khaled’s company.
She hugged her arms to her, the night’s chill finally registering, and stepped back inside, pulling the doors shut behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a tiny flashing light. A message on her answer machine; maybe Paolo had called…
She punched the play button but it was Gianfranco’s gravelly tones that filled the room. ‘Expect a new client,’ he said in his rich Italian voice. ‘This will be very good for your profile and for the House of Bacelli. I expect you to take this commission.’
The machine beeped its conclusion as nerve endings tingled. There was no getting out of it now. She wasn’t fooled by Gianfranco’s use of language. What Gianfranco ‘expected’, invariably happened. So where did that leave her now?
Most likely on a plane to Jebbai on Monday.
Which meant the one thing she didn’t want to deal with. She shivered. She wouldn’t be travelling alone.
Signor Khaled would be on the plane with her.
