A Whisper of Disgrace

Rosa felt her heart clench. Wasted them? When she’d opened up to him like she’d never done to anyone else? When she’d let him touch her body as nobody had ever touched it before. When she’d decided that maybe she could trust him enough to tell him the truth about her parentage, only now it seemed that he was throwing it all back in her face. When would she ever learn that the only person she could really trust was herself?

‘How silly of me,’ she said lightly.

‘Very silly,’ he agreed, though the tremble of her lips made him briefly wonder whether it was worth telling the pilot to circle the plane so that he could indeed seduce her. Wouldn’t ridding himself of this terrible ache make such an indulgent breach worthwhile?

And yet, hadn’t he been partially responsible for this very unsatisfactory turn of events? He had been leaning forward, about to kiss her, when he had been arrested by the look on her face as he had touched her so intimately. He had never seen a reaction so instant nor so rapturous and hadn’t he just watched her with a kind of dazed voyeurism, instead of undressing her and starting to make love to her?

He shifted his body as he decided against a delayed landing. Maybe it was better this way. The fantasies he had been building about his feisty little Sicilian should be enjoyed in slow time—not in some rushed explosion of need in the rather limited confines of an aircraft.

He snapped shut his seat belt and subjected her to a cool stare. ‘In life, I find that timing is everything. Maybe that’s something you should bear in mind for the future, Rosa.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

KULAL’S BREATH CAUGHT in his throat as Rosa entered the Damask reception room of the Zahrastanian Embassy, looking like a vision in her bridal finery. He stared at her, finding it hard to reconcile the pole-dancing temptress with the woman walking slowly towards him. By necessity, the white gown she wore was modest, covering her entire body so that only her hands and her neck were left bare. Her dark hair was coiled on top of her head and the lace-trimmed veil was held in place by a priceless diamond-and-ruby tiara from the Al-Dimashqi collection.

Inexplicably, he felt the sudden twist of his heart, for she looked … His gaze drifted over her and he gave a small shake of his head. She looked beautiful. More beautiful than any woman he’d ever seen and he wondered if his senses were inevitably heightened by the significance of the ceremony which was about to take place.

They had been apart ever since his car had dropped her off at the Plaza Athénée Hotel yesterday, after a tense and silent journey from the airport. He had spent the night alone at his own apartment, simmering with a sexual frustration which was completely new to him. Naked, he had tossed and turned in his vast bed while the events of that bizarre flight to Paris had taunted him. Rosa had refused to have sex with him, and had then inexplicably changed her mind, just before coming in to land. He had never met such a capricious woman before!

The wedding had been scheduled—without fanfare—to take place within hours of their arriving in the French capital because he didn’t want the world’s press to get wind of it. Inevitably, word would get out sooner or later and then the palace’s slick PR machine could whirr into action. But someone must have talked—the way they always did—which had meant that he’d been forced to clear a path through the waiting photographers who’d been standing outside the embassy when he had arrived earlier.

But now his bride was here and any lingering misgivings he might have been harbouring were dissolved by that tentative look she was slanting at him from behind the misty cover of her veil. How well she played the part, he thought approvingly. That faux shyness was remarkably convincing and he knew that the embassy officials would approve of her demure appearance.

‘Rosa,’ he said as he stepped forward and raised her hand to his lips.

Rosa could feel his warm breath on her fingertips and the tantalising promise of his touch only added to her general feeling of disorientation. Even discounting the fact that she was standing in an exquisite bridal gown in the middle of the Zahrastanian Embassy, the man she had agreed to marry now looked like a stranger. Today, his playboy reputation and urbane appearance were nothing but distant memories. The immaculately cut suit had been replaced by a flowing garment of white silk and his hair was covered with a headdress of the same colour, held in place by an intricately knotted band of golden thread. He looked dark and indomitable, and the starkness of his robes seemed to emphasise the chiselled contours of his face.

Rosa swallowed down a feeling of nerves. ‘The place is swarming with press,’ she said.