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Her heart pounding inside her head, she stepped into the room. It was a tiny oasis of palest green, with a canopy of exotic hand-painted flowers trailing from the ceiling that looked just like the ones outside their honeymoon suite in Maui. Her eyes tracked slowly around the room. There was a photograph of Las Vegas and another of some grazing horses—no, not just some horses...
She took a step closer, her breath catching.
They were her horses: Embla and The Pigeon.
She turned slowly on the spot. Last night, Omar had made it sound as if this fort was a new acquisition. Or maybe she had just heard it that way. But it couldn’t be, she thought, as her gaze moved from a lamp with a Statue-of-Liberty-shaped base to the Roman blinds decorated with pictures of caravans of camels. Every detail had been carefully chosen as a reminder of the places that were unique and special to the two of them.
Eyes burning, she dug her fingers into the back of a pink velvet sofa.
For so long she had thought Omar indifferent, but now, standing here, thinking about him creating this for her...for the child he’d imagined them having one day...she felt the thread that had come loose inside her last night begin to unravel a little more.
The thread unravelled again as she made her way through the rooms downstairs. Despite having only arrived last night, she felt strangely at home in a way that she never had in the slick, modern interior of their New York apartment. Maybe because this was more like the Bedford ranch house in feel, with huge, faded rugs, exposed stone walls and comfortable linen-covered sofas.
Outside on a terrace, breakfast—or perhaps brunch—was set out beneath a huge cream canopy. She sat down, realising as she did so that for the first time in weeks, she felt hungry. Ravenous, in fact. And that wasn’t the only change. It seemed easier to breathe than it had been yesterday. But maybe that was just the mountain air.
The food was delicious.
Puffy melt-in-the-mouth flatbreads with fennel, cardamom and saffron. Scrambled eggs cooked with vermicelli rice, caramelised onions, raisins and rose water—and, of course, dates and coffee.
But she was too distracted by the view to fully concentrate on what she was eating. In the dark, the mountains had been simply shapes. Now, though, they rose grey-brown, majestic, and implacable, and so huge that the fort looked like a child’s toy. It was impossible not to be impressed. The garden, too, was impressive—not just in scale but in its lush greenness. All palm trees quivering in the heat and verdant lawns broken up by narrow, vibrantly coloured tiled pools.
It was like an oasis, she thought—and instantly she was back upstairs in that pale jewel of a nursery.
She could have sat there for what remained of the morning, trying to make sense of that tiny green room, and maybe she would have done if she hadn’t heard the sound of something so irresistibly familiar that her limbs were moving of their own accord, and she was pushing back her chair to investigate.
Heart pounding, she followed the sound to a dark oak door. Walking through it, she pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself. She had found the stables. Her breath caught and, feeling a buzz of excitement and impatience, she walked towards where horses were peering over their half-doors, whickering and stamping.
‘Hello, my beauty,’ she said softly to the grey in the nearest stall.
The horse responded, leaning forward to rest its face against hers, and, closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell of straw and leather and sweat.
‘I thought I might find you here.’
Her eyes snapped open. Omar was standing at the entrance to the stables, watching her intently, his muscular shoulder wedged against the door frame. She hadn’t actually allowed herself to think about this moment, but after her febrile X-rated dreams it was a shock to see him looking calm, composed, and fully clothed in worn-in white twill jeans, jodhpur boots and the faded blue and yellow Howard Harriers polo shirt, worn by her father’s polo team.
That gave her a jolt, and she wondered momentarily why he was wearing that particular shirt. There were any number of possible answers to that question, all equally unnerving, but luckily, he chose that moment to walk towards her, and all thought was drowned out by the sound of her heart hammering like a blacksmith shoeing a horse.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just let myself in.’
‘I’m glad you did.’ He inclined his head towards the mare. ‘Her name’s Alima. It means wise.’
She watched him stroke the horse’s neck, his fingers moving slowly and steadily over the silky coat and felt her pulse jumping haphazardly like a startled frog. Omar had a great sense of touch, and it was far too easy to remember those strong, firm hands caressing her body, effortlessly making her soft and hot, making her melt inside.
‘And is she?’ she asked, turning away, hoping that nothing of what she was thinking had shown on her face. ‘Wise, I mean?’
‘She is. But she’s also young, and she doesn’t trust very easily. Her last owner messed up her head, so you get one chance and then she tries to buck you off. And if that fails, she bolts.’
She glanced up at him sharply, sensing something beneath his words, but his face was smooth and unreadable.
‘That’s a pity.’ It was none of her business, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘And what’s her current owner doing about that?’
His eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘Honestly? He’s struggling a little.’
Fine lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, and she felt a click of connection between them. Trying to ignore it, she said, ‘Any particular reason?’
‘I think she requires a sensitivity and lightness of touch that’s beyond him.’
Her nipples tightened against her dress as he reached past her and picked up the head collar hanging from a hook outside the loose box. They were standing far too close, and she had a sudden, sharp flashback to the moment last night when she’d leaned in and brushed her mouth against his.
