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The car was slowing and, turning towards the window again, she caught a glimpse of wide marble steps flanked by men in dark suits. And then the limousine stopped. Her heart was racing; she could taste the adrenaline in her mouth. Parties, people, crowds...they were so not her thing.
If only she could stay here in the car. Just drop Omar off and then go back to the apartment—better still the airport. But if she did that then she wouldn’t get her divorce. Or at least not quickly or easily. And slow and difficult would just mean more pain for everyone.
All she had to do was get through the next few hours and it would be over. She would have kept her side of the bargain and she could get the hell out of Dodge. Or, in her case, Dubai.
‘This way, darling.’
Omar was standing beside her, his hand outstretched. She blinked, the sudden casual intimacy of his words knocking the air out of her lungs, and then held out her hand and let him lead her through the gleaming white hallway.
Her first thought was how unlike her own family home it was. The ranch house was large and sprawling, but really it was five thousand square feet of dimly lit log cabin with stone fireplaces and worn leather sofas.
This was a real-life palace. With each step she took, polished metal and crystal chandeliers jostled with huge modern canvases and centuries-old artefacts to grab her attention. Clearly Maha had been right, she thought, remembering what the stylist had said to her. People here were proud about who they were and what they had achieved.
‘You’re very quiet.’ Omar glanced over at her. ‘Are you plotting your escape? Or my demise?’
She bit into her lip to stop it from curving into a smile. She had forgotten that side to him. The side that could make her smile and laugh. Unlike both her parents, smiling had never come naturally to her. But making her laugh was one of the ways Omar had broken down her barriers. It was why he was the first, the only man she had given her heart to.
Her eyes paused on his arresting face beneath the ghutra. Although other things had played a part too...
She swallowed and looked away. The sound of voices was filtering through the walls. And music. Soft, lilting, rhythmic. It reminded her of Vegas and Omar teaching her the dabke, a traditional Arabic wedding dance, in their room as the sun rose on the first day of their married life. They’d danced and laughed and ended up back in bed.
Now they were walking towards two huge bronze doors and, focusing her attention on what lay on the other side, she pushed back against the wave of nostalgia rising inside her.
‘Both. But I would need two hands.’
Her words fluttered between them, foolish and unthinking, like moths bashing into glass.
‘Not always,’ he said slowly. ‘Sometimes you managed perfectly well without the use of either.’
Their eyes locked and she stared at him, the air leaving her body. There was no point pretending that she didn’t understand what he was talking about. She could see it as clearly as if she was there, feel it as if it was happening...their bodies twisting against the sheets and then his hand catching her wrists to stretch them above her head as he thrust deeper and deeper, until she was arching against him, mindless and moaning.
She shivered all the way through, hating herself, hating the fact that even now she could feel this way.
‘Things change. I’ve changed.’
The music was getting louder. At the margins of her vision, she sensed rather than saw two men step forward, and then the doors swung open and her footsteps and her breathing faltered.
They had arrived at the party.
But she barely registered the huge, high-ceilinged room, or the guests turning to look at them. Drawing a jagged breath, she tugged her hand away, but he simply tightened his grip.
‘If you’re planning on making a scene, I’d advise against it,’ he said quietly.
Heart pounding fiercely, she looked over at the man filling the space beside her. ‘I’m perfectly in control of my emotions, thank you.’
The corner of his mouth curled, but there was no humour in his dark eyes. ‘Then clearly you haven’t changed at all. Perhaps if you had our marriage might have had a chance.’
She blinked as a camera flashed to her left.
‘It’s okay,’ Omar murmured. ‘It’s a private photographer. My father likes to have a record of family events.’
‘Omar!’ A tall man with a close-cut greying beard stepped forward, his dark eyes widening with happiness. ‘I heard you’d arrived, little brother.’
Omar smiled. ‘Hamdan.’ The two men embraced. ‘It’s good to see you too.’
Watching him, Delphi felt her stomach tighten. Nobody would know that she was here under duress, obligation. But she could sense Omar’s tension. It was there in the rigidity of his body and the tightness in his jaw even as he smiled.
‘Not as good as it is to see you. Don’t leave it so long next time.’ Hamdan squeezed Omar’s shoulder, then turned, his face growing serious. ‘And you must be Delphi.’ He inclined his head. ‘I am Hamdan, Omar’s eldest brother. Welcome, finally, to Dubai.’
