They went down to the foyer of the building, where the concierge held open the door and their driver was waiting, helping Liyah into one side of the car while Sharif got into the other.
The dress had a thigh-high slit and Liyah held the edges together over her thigh for the duration of the journey. Not that Sharif would even notice if she stripped naked, she was sure.
When they arrived at a seriously opulent-looking hotel, Sharif got out and came around, opening her door. He helped her out and kept hold of her hand, leading her onto the red carpet.
They stopped for the ubiquitous pictures. Liyah tried not to flinch every time a flash went off, wondering if she’d ever get used to it.
Beside her, Sharif said, sotto voce, ‘That was one of the first things to make me suspect that perhaps there was more to you than you’d told me.’
‘What was that?’
‘Your lack of ease in front of the photographers. I noticed it at the Met.’
She looked up and met his gaze. A moment passed between them—a sense of affinity, delicate and ephemeral. His eyes moved to her mouth and he lifted a brow in question. Liyah knew what he was asking and she gave one tiny nod, her skin prickling all over in anticipation.
His head descended and his mouth brushed hers, light enough to tease, but strong enough to make her move closer, making a small sound. Her free hand went to his chest and he caught it there.
Then he pulled back. The world was a deafening clatter of sound and flashing lights.
‘Mr Marchetti, another kiss, please!’
‘Princess Aaliyah—over here. Who are you wearing?’
Liyah felt dizzy, but she watched as Sharif calmly faced the photographers and said, ‘Mrs Marchetti is wearing Elie Saab couture.’
He moved forward and Liyah followed unsteadily, trying to get her hammering heart back into a normal rhythm. He’d barely kissed her, and it had been purely for the cameras, but she was reduced to jelly. What would happen if he kissed her in private?
Not going to happen, she reminded herself.
By the time they reached the main reception she was marginally under control again.
Sharif stopped suddenly and said something in Italian that she didn’t catch. Then he turned to her, pulling his phone out. ‘There was something I wanted to show you before we left the apartment, but I got distracted.’
Liyah’s heart sped up again. Had she distracted him? She hoped so, because he distracted her all the time.
He handed her his phone. It was a press release, headed with the Marchetti Group’s logo.
W
e accept the apology from Celebrity! Magazine, which published photos of a woman last year, claiming them to be of Princess Aaliyah Binte Rashad Mansour.
It was, in fact, a model called Ameera Sayam.
Celebrity! Magazine have agreed to donate an undisclosed amount of money to a charity chosen by the Marchetti Group, and extend their apologies for having caused Mrs Aaliyah Marchetti any distress.
The words swam ominously in front of Liyah’s eyes and she quickly blinked. Until that moment she hadn’t realised how hurtful it was that her own father had betrayed her in such a way. And now Sharif had gone out of his way to clear her name.
She handed back his phone. ‘Thank you...you didn’t have to do that.’ Her voice was husky.
‘I did, actually. Your reputation now affects me and the Marchetti Group.’
Liyah’s emotions shrivelled. He’d done it for pragmatic reasons. Not for her. ‘Of course.’
A waiter approached and Sharif took two glasses of champagne, handing Liyah one. She avoided his eye and took a quick sip, hoping he wouldn’t notice anything. What was it about this man? She’d been more aware of her emotions in the past couple of weeks than she had her whole life.
And of your desires, pointed out a wicked inner voice.
Sharif took her hand again and led her into the crowd. She’d never seen so many beautiful people in her life. Women in shimmering dresses like hers. Blinging with jewels... The smell of perfume was almost overwhelming...