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A strange knot of panic gripped his stomach as he thought about what would have happened if she had not informed him that an heir presumptive to the Kingdom of Amar’a was on its way.
“I’m very glad you did tell me.” And his relief was so palpable in his words that Emma felt the knife twisting in her gut. She hated herself for not being more thrilled that this guy was going to do right by her sister, but damn it, did the one man she had felt attracted to, ever, really have to be Cassandra’s baby daddy?
“However,” he cut across her anguished train of thought, “this is a matter for Cassandra and the baby’s father. It seems odd that she asked her sister to go running on her behalf.”
Emma shook her head. “It’s not like that. She doesn’t even know I’m here.” If she’d been paying attention, she might have seen the way his face tightened at that revelation. “She was adamant that you wouldn’t want to know.”
“And yet you went against her wishes. Why?”
“She is heartbroken, Rafiq,” she said, using his name for the first time. “Sorry, it just doesn’t feel appropriate to call you Your Highness anymore.”
He shook his head. “What you call me is irrelevant.”
“Well, Rafiq, my sister is at home, pregnant and sobbing into her pillow every night. Because of you! So what would you have done? Sat back and done nothing?”
He thought about the fruitless search he’d been overseeing for his wayward brother Mansour and knew that Emma was right. She had had no choice.
“You must be very close to Cassandra?” He surmised.
“Yes. As she must have told you, our parents died when we were sixteen. It’s been just the two of us for a long time.”
“No grandparents?”
“No. Our parents were in their forties when they had us; we never knew any of our grandparents.”
An experienced flyer, he felt the way the plane had started a slow descent. Beside him, Emma tensed, and he spoke to reassure her. “It is a clear evening. Our landing will be smooth.”
“Landings are never smooth,” she disagreed, curling her fingers around the lip of the armrest, nervous and queasy all at the same time.
He thought about the response he would usually give in a situation such as this. Perhaps a platitude. More likely he’d have her moved to another part of the plane, so that he could concentrate on his work without this sense of worry. But he did neither. He reached across and took her hand in his, squeezing it reassuringly.
Emma felt like tiny little daggers were dancing under her skin. Pins and needles on speed. His hand was warm, she noted. His skin soft. His fingers long and capable, and his nails short and well cared for, though not in the way of a man who gets regular manicures. She knew she should have broken the contact. He was, after all, about to be reunited with Cassandra. But she couldn’t. She was weak, and she hated herself for it, but all of a sudden, Emma realized her future was going to be made bearable by illicit physical contact with a man she could never have, and must pine for very, very privately.
And so she let him hold her hand as the plan dropped out of the sky (well, descended in a safe and controlled manner, rather), and as it careened along the runway (landed perfectly and slowed to a steady crawl). As the engines quieted down and the plane nudged towards the terminal building, Emma let out a deep breath and let go of the Sheikh’s hand. Four crescent shaped indents were clearly visible along the ridges of his knuckles, where her fingers had bitten into his royal skin.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She exclaimed, leaning forward and inspecting the marks. “I really am a terribly flyer, but it’s no excuse for mauling you.”
He bit back the retort that being mauled by her was at the top of his wish list currently.
The pilots cut the engine and once again, the cabin was a hive of ground and flight staff. Fatima came toward them, carrying a sheer piece of pale blue cloth. She passed it to Rafiq with a smile at Emma and then disappeared to the front of the plane.
“Here, put this on,” Rafiq passed the fabric to Emma, and, when she looked at it in confusion, he took it back from her. “Allow me.” He draped it skillfully over her head, noticing the way her eyes were clouded and her lips parted slightly.
He stood back to admire his work. “Perfect.”
She frowned. “But, Rafiq, we don’t wear head scarves in America.”
“But women in Amar’a do.”
