Page 213 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

His next opportunity to speak to Val came that afternoon. Hind, who’d arranged this happy little gathering to toast the couple, was on a video call in the lobby that certainly wouldn’t last forever. They were utilizing this opportunity to row very well, though. In the time he’d known her—which, granted, had been less than twenty-four hours—he’d never seen her so enraged.

“You never said a word!” Desmond continued. “Not one word!”

“ It just—never seemed like the right time! I was in the moment,” she defended herself.

“You certainly were,” he muttered, then gritted his teeth. The conversation was growing more ridiculous by the moment, and he just couldn’t reconcile the soft, yielding woman who’d kissed him and looked at him with such wonder the night before with the type of person that would sleep with him, knowing she wasmarried.

“If you’d get off your moral high horse for just a moment, I could explain.” Val’s voice had grown frayed.

Moral high horse?Ha!

“I haven’t seen him in over eight years. And no, I don’t know where he is. We were living in Dubai at the time, and he…left me.”

“Left you,” Desmond repeated, looking keenly into her face. It was tight and very carefully controlled and there was a pinched line between her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“He left me,” she repeated. “Technically I could file for divorce on the grounds of desertion. No, I haven’t talked to him since then, and yes, he’s still alive. His family confirmed that much, although they won’t say a word about where he is. And frankly, I don’t want to find him. Not at this point.”

The words hung between them for a long moment then Desmond sank back into his chair, his fury spent. “Huh.”

Val pressed her knees together and leaned forward, decanting steaming amber tea into both their cups. Her hand was shaking. “Lemon? Milk?”

“Neither.” He winced when she picked up her cup and took a long sip; she didn’t seem to notice the heat that probably would have burned off the tip of his tongue. “Val.”

She said nothing and didn’t look up. Her lashes cast shadows over her soft brown cheeks; he forced himself not to notice. “I didn’t know.”

“How could you have known?” she said. Desmond was struck with a sudden urge to hold her; to comfort her. There was some element in her that roused his protectiveness—maybe he’d sensed the sadness in her.

“Would you do me the honor of letting me sympathize with you, at least?” he said after a moment. He picked up his own tea and took a less aggressive sip.

“First of all, you’re about eight years too late. And second of all, no sympathy’s needed. It was a long time ago,” she said. “And it’s irrelevant, anyway. What’s relevant is that you’ve put me in the most appalling position, Desmond Tesfay. I can’t make this much money anywhere else in the world, and I… I need it.”

Her voice broke a little over that last hesitation. Desmond wanted to find out why, but she continued before he could open his mouth.

“I have…debts to pay. Lots of them. Financially I’ll be where I need to be in about three years, if I keep working for the sheikh. He’s got cash to burn. But if I lose my job… Everyone knows everyone in these circles, Desmond, and if I mess up with one employer then I’ve lost them all.”

The despair in her voice pricked at a soft place inside that he thought impenetrable by any entreaty; he’d been so hyperfocused on his own troubles for such a long time that he’d long since pushed aside close relationships. How could he share in another’s burdens, when his own were crushing him?

“I cannot lose Sheikh Rashid’s good opinion,” she said. “He’s done so much for me already.”

There it was again, that regard for the older man that niggled at him in ways he had no right to feel. Desmond took a long, calming breath, one that allowed him to regain full control over his faculties, then leaned forward, picked up a pair of silver tongs, and began loading a fine china plate with some of the more mouth-watering titbits on the table. “I bet you haven’t eaten since this morning.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat,” he said, his voice firm. “I’m here to listen. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I’d like to help. If I can.”

There. He’d said it.

It was the first time in ten years he’d offered to help anyone when there was nothing in it for him. First, he’d asked the woman to let him stay with her, and now this?

What the hell was Valentina Montgomery doing to him?

He dropped his eyes to the plate he was arranging and discovered he’d piled enough sandwiches on it to feed a small horse. Hurriedly he decanted half back onto the serving tray and handed her the plate.

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”

She shook her head quickly to cut him off. “No. It’s fine. I want to.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

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