The Sheikh's Last Gamble

The cabin attendant chatted cheerily while she settled Marina into her wide leather seat, but Marina caught not a word of it, too consumed by Bahir’s reaction, too stunned to think about anything else.

So that was what she would get—the silent treatment.

Clearly Bahir was as resentful of being in her company as she was being in his. Equally clearly, he was in no mood for small talk.

Which suited her just fine.

So long as she could eventually find the words to tell him he was a father.

He tried to focus on the business magazine he’d selected from the rack but the words were meaningless scrawl, the article indecipherable, and he tossed it aside. Hopeless. It was no different from the online journal he’d been reading since he’d boarded the jet in Nice, his attention riveted not by the words he was attempting to read but by a simmering resentment that bubbled faster and more furious the closer the plane got to Al-Jirad. Why the hell had he agreed to this again? He still wasn’t sure he had agreed. But Zoltan had called and said she’d agreed to go with him and he knew he would have looked weak if he’d refused again.

Much better to look like it didn’t matter a bit.

Except that it did.

Because right now, as the attendant stowed Marina’s hand luggage and made her comfortable, and as he tried to pretend she wasn’t there, his focus was still held captive by the images captured on his retinas—those damned eyes, her pupils large, catlike and seductive. The jut of her collarbones in the vee of the open neck of the fitted ruffled shirt that flirted over her curves, and the jewel-studded belt hugging her swaying hips.

He growled, his nostrils flaring. He picked up his laptop again, determined not to give in, trying to find focus instead of distraction. Because, if it wasn’t enough that his mind was filled with images of her, now he could smell her. He remembered that scent, a blend of jasmine, frangipani and warm, wanton woman. He remembered the taste of it on her glistening, sweat-slickened skin. He remembered pressing his face to the curve of her throat and drinking it in as he plunged into her sweet depths.

He shifted in his seat and slammed the computer shut as the plane started to taxi to the runway. How long was the flight to Pisa—three hours? Four? He growled again.

Too long, however long it took.

How did you find the words to tell someone he was a father? Not easily, especially when that man sat across the aisle from you, rumbling and growling like a dark thundercloud. Any moment she expected to see lightning bolts issuing from his head.

And that was before she had managed to find the words.

What was she supposed to say? Excuse me, Bahir, but did I ever tell you about our son? Or, Congratulations, Bahir. You’re a father, to a three-year-old boy. It must have somehow slipped my mind …

The plane came to a halt at the start of the runway and she glanced across the aisle to where he sat, his posture closed off, his expression grim. Even though she let her gaze linger, even though she was sure he would be aware, still he refused to look her way.

And she wondered how, even if she could find the words, was she supposed to tell him about his child when he wouldn’t even look at her?

Did he hate her that much?

How much more would he hate her when he learned the truth?

The engines whined, preparing for take-off, echoing her own nerves, spun tight by his presence, and spun even tighter by the search for the words to tell him.

She closed her eyes and let the jet’s acceleration push her deeper into her seat, forcing herself to relax as the whine became a scream and then a roar as the plane launched itself and speared into the sky.

It wasn’t as though there was a rush. They had four hours of flight time and then a two-hour drive to her home in the most northern reaches of Tuscany. Why tell him now and spoil the fragile if tense cease-fire that seemed to exist between them? For he would not remain silent once he knew. He would be intolerable. Perhaps with a measure of justification. Still, why make their hours together more difficult than they already were?

No, there was plenty of time to tell him.

Later.

They were an hour into their flight when they were given the news. One hour of interminable and excruciating silence, filled with the static of all the things that were left unsaid, until the air in the cabin fairly crackled with the tension, a silence punctuated only when the smiling flight attendant came to top up their drinks or offer refreshments.

But this time she had the co-pilot with her and neither of them was smiling.

‘So fly around it,’ Bahir said after they’d delivered their grim message, too impatient for this trip to be over to tolerate delays, whatever the reason.

‘That’s not possible,’ the co-pilot explained. ‘The storm cell is tracking right into our path. And the danger is we could ice up if we try to go over. The aviation authorities are ordering everyone out of the area.’

‘So what does that mean?’ Marina asked. ‘We can’t get to Pisa at all?’

‘Not just yet. We’re putting down at the nearest airport that can take us. We’ll be beginning our descent soon. Just be prepared as we skirt the edges of this thing that it could get a bit rough. You might want to keep your seatbelts fastened.’

Bahir usually had no trouble sitting. He could sit for hours at a stretch when his luck was with him and the spinning ball might have been his to command. But right now he couldn’t sit still a moment longer.

He was up and out of his seat the moment they’d gone. God, if it wasn’t enough that he had to spend six hours in her company, now he would be forced to spend even more time. He raked clawed fingers through his hair. And with her sitting there, her legs tucked up beneath her and those eyes—those damned eyes—looking like an invitation to sin.

‘The co-pilot suggested keeping your seatbelt fastened.’

He ignored her as much as it was possible to do. That was the problem with planes, he realised. There was not enough room to pace and to distance yourself from the thing that was bugging you, and right now he sorely needed to pace and find distance from the woman who was bugging him.

Besides, any possible turbulence outside the plane was no match for what was going on inside him. He turned and strode back the other way, covering the length of the cabin in a dozen purposeful but ultimately futile strides, for there was no easing of the tightness in his gut, no respite.

Suddenly he understood how a captive lion felt, boxed and caged and unable to find a way out no matter how many times it turned to retrace its steps, no matter how hard it searched.

‘The co-pilot said—’

‘I know what he said!’ he spat, not needing input from the likes of her.

‘Oh, good. Because I thought maybe you’d developed a hearing problem. I should have realised it was a problem with your powers of comprehension.’

‘Oh, I’ve got a problem all right, and it begins and ends with you.’

She blinked up at him, feigning innocence. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

Suddenly the turbulence inside him exploded. He wheeled around and clamped his hands on the arms of the chair either side of her, his face occupying the space hers had been just moments before. He almost grunted his satisfaction, because he liked the way she’d jumped and pressed herself as far back as she could in the chair. He liked knowing he’d taken her by surprise. And, strangely, he liked knowing she wasn’t as unaffected by his presence as she made out. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’

Inches from his own, those rich caramel eyes opened wide enough until they were big enough to lose yourself in. He watched them, knowing the dangers, watching their swirling depths as she tried to come up with an answer. He’d lost himself in those eyes once before, lost himself in their promises and their persuasion. But that was before, and for all their seductive power he sure as hell wouldn’t let that happen again, no matter what pleasures they promised.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He shook his head, not believing. ‘Then maybe I should spell it out for you. I’m talking about being stuck here—you and me. I expressly told Zoltan I wouldn’t do this. I told him there was no way you would agree. And yet here we find ourselves, together. How did that happen, do you suppose? Unless you agreed to it. And I have to ask myself, what possible reason could you have for doing that? What were you thinking?’

She tried to hide her nervous swallow, but he missed nothing of the tiny tilt of her chin and the movement in her throat. He had trained himself to spot the tiniest shift in facial expression or body language of his opponents, a skill that had stood him in good stead through many a poker game. He knew she was hiding something. Did she imagine that there was a chance for them again? Did she think that, because he’d accompanied Zoltan and the others to Mustafa’s camp, it meant something? That he was ready to take her back?

She looked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘You think I really want to be here, imprisoned thousands of feet above the earth with you and your black mood?’

Her words were no kind of answer, and he would have told her, only he was suddenly distracted by a stray strand of hair that looped close to the corner of one of those eyes. ‘Somebody must have agreed,’ he rumbled as he raised one hand. ‘And it sure as hell wasn’t me.’ She flinched as his fingers neared, holding her breath as he gently swept the hair back, surprised when he felt a familiar tremor under her skin, disturbed even more when he felt a corresponding sizzle under his own.

Abruptly he pushed himself away and stood with his back to her, rubbing his hands together to rid himself of the unwelcome sensation. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got better things to do than waste my time babysitting a spoilt princess?’

‘I absolutely agree,’ she said behind him. ‘I’m quite sure there’s a casino just waiting to be fleeced by the famous Sheikh of Spin. I can’t imagine how you managed to drag yourself away.’