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“Miss Smith?” The woman smiled, her voice accented.
“Hello.”
The woman pulled the door inwards. “Please, come in.”
Sarah skittled her with an uncertain gaze and then stepped just inside the door. Should she take her shoes off? The servant was wearing shoes. Sarah kept hers on.
“His Highness is expecting you.”
Given that he’d organised her trip, that was no surprise.
“Great,” her smile was over-bright.
“This way, please.”
Sarah fell into step just behind the other woman, but as they moved deeper into the apartment, every doubt she’d had blew wide open.
She had known Syed as Sy. She had believed him to be important and wealthy, but wealthy in a normal way. Successful, middle-class.
This was a whole new world. There were at least a dozen servants in the corridors as they went – and those same corridors were lined with artworks she recognised as having come from world-famous artists. Some old – impressionists and renaissance masters – some new, post-modern pieces that complemented the classics.
The corridor opened into a living space that was at least ten times the size of her entire house. The ceilings were, as with the foyer, double height, and two whole walls were comprised of dark glass, showcasing Manhattan at sunset in a glorying display of beauty and glamour. Much like the artwork collected in the corridor, Manhattan was a mix of classic beauty and modern masterpieces.
Soft music reached her ears. Lilting flute pieces that were as haunting as they were exotic. Her eyes, wide, and so blue they were like an ice lake, travelled over the space, registering the sofas – black leather – the dining table – glass with marble legs, and finally, landing on Syed.
Only not as she’d ever seen him.
He stood as a sentinel, backlit by the setting sun, his eyes studying her with an intensity that made her throat thick and her mind numb. He stared at her as though he was mentally undressing her, removing her dress with the burning heat in his eyes.
And he was wearing, what she could only presume to be, traditional robes of Kalastan. They were a cream colour, with a gold pattern weaved into the collar and the cuffs. They showed the rich tan of his skin to perfection, and he looked somehow bigger and broader in them. He looked spectacular.
No. That was like saying the earth was large or the moon far away. He was shining with beauty and strength. He was an image of power and passion. He was luminous and he filled her being completely.
Her stomach lurched.
She was lost.
How could she say ‘no’ to him? To any request? She was lost, utterly. Five years be damned. She was as much in his thrall as ever before.
“Najin,” he said, the word thick with emotions she couldn’t comprehend. He began to move towards her, and said something in his own tongue. Something she didn’t understand.
But the servants began to file from the room, leaving them completely alone.
“You came,” he said with a hint of relief.
She nodded. Speech was beyond her.
“I am glad.”
Another nod. What could she say to that? There was no word to describe her emotions. She was drowning in uncertainty.
“Please, sit.” He gestured to the table and she saw now that it had been set for dinner. Candles glistened at its centre, and a bottle of champagne was nestled into a golden ice bucket.
“A prelude before the main act?” She drawled, finally remembering her voice.
His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. “You are here now. There is no need to rush matters.” An
d they needed to speak. It was imperative that he explain things to her.
