Page 226 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

He wanted to marry her.

After his heart-stopping announcement, he’d explained, of course, still cradling her in his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I like you,” he’d said, simply. “And I want this to be—real, at least to the degree that we can make it. It seems all right for now, but you’re not going to feel right, lying to Sheikh Rashid for however long this lasts, and—well, I won’t, either. There are more reasons to marry than love, Valentina. I want you to consider it. I can promise you will never regret this.”

He seemed determined—she could see it on his face when he thought she wasn’t looking—that she would never have a reason to be uncomfortable in his presence, that she’d have every reason to accept his wild proposal.

And if she were honest, it was this that made her uncomfortable. It was too much.

She wasn’t used to such consideration, from anyone. Her stepfather had been tolerant. Malik had been…overbearingly self-interested. And here she was, with a man who sent cars to pick her up so she wouldn’t have to walk, who gave her an Amex black card in her name for “anything she needed” and who texted her every night to wish her sweet dreams.

She wished he was the shallow young man she’d assumed he was before she met him. It would have made their resolution so much easier. But he wasn’t. He’d proven that much, that night in Notting Hill. And then he’d look at her, and he’d smile, a slow deliberate smile that lit something inside her and made her feel sparks down to her fingertips. It wasn’t a crush or the beginnings of love or anything like that, but it wassomething. The pleasure of beingseenperhaps, and the realization that after nearly a decade of resting in an emotionally fetal position, she nowwantedto be seen. And it was having an effect on her that she couldn’t deny. What might it look like if she were free? Truly free?

Even now, in her old clothes, she looked so different—the type of difference that radiated from within. She wasglowing. Being desired so nakedly by Desmond Tesfay had made her see her body in a different light. Her wobbly bits had been transformed to lush softness; her lips looked tender and red, even without the benefit of gloss. She was flushed and warm with passion—unbelievable passion—both given and received. Words. Kisses. Hands and lips skimming every inch of her body. Heat and sweetness and a pleasure that overwhelmed every bit of common sense.

Yes, Desmond Tesfay was a skilled lover. And she, Ms. Pragmatic, Ms. Practical, Ms. Prudish, even, had blossomed under his touch like one of the moss roses on her balcony that she guarded so carefully from the Gulf heat.

Val liked sure things; she liked answers. Embarking on this—could she even call it an affair?—was unsettling, at best. And in the days that had followed she’d waited in vain to see another glimpse of the man who’d taken her to his home that night and told her a story that had made her heart break for him.

But despite his loving gestures, that man never appeared again.

Would that be enough for her? Another marriage to a man who was masking his true self from her, even though he was considerably kinder than the last one?

A discreet tap at the door startled her. Goodness, she’d been deep in thought! She shoved her feet into her pumps, and when she opened the door she recognized the grizzle-haired concierge who’d been tasked with taking care of Sheikh Rashid’s family for the duration of the visit.

“Mr. Tesfay’s car is waiting downstairs, ma’am,” the man said respectfully.

Waiting among the black taxis at the curb of the hotel was a sleek champagne-colored Tesla that glowed in the light of the early morning. A smart driver in a tailored suit opened the door for her, and Val slid in, her eyes widening in surprise as she did.

The interior of the car was a surprise after the staid gray dignity of Mayfair. It smelled faintly of rosewater and something else too, something sharper and suggestive of essential oils. While she was figuring it out, the driver flipped open a carved wooden box and lifted out a rolled white cloth with a pair of tongs. He draped the steaming cloth over her hands, pointed out the glass water bottles and snack bar built into the armrest, then shut the door.

Traffic seemed to part as if by magic for the Tesla meaning the ride to the airport was quick and smooth. When she arrived, she was handed over to an agent who escorted her to a private check-in and security desk, and yet another car was waiting to whisk her off to a plane waiting at the edge of the tarmac. The distinct light blue, white and pale gold of Bahr Al-Dahab’s flag fluttered next to a strip of red carpet leading to the steps up to the aircraft. And when she caught sight of Desmond, tall and erect and impeccably dressed with his arms full of delicate, star-shaped flowers, her heart began to thud, and her throat tightened.

He smiled as she approached him. The scent of the flowers was so strong and sweet that she could smell them even from a distance. When she grew close he laid them carefully in her arms.

“You look good,” he said, kissing her cheek.

She swallowed. “Desmond, I don’t think—”

“Flowers a bit too much?” He peered into her face.

“Well, yes—”

“They’re Arabian jasmine—the Bahr Al-Dahab variety, as I’m sure you know. The design team thought they were overkill as well, you know, with allergies in the cabin and whatnot…”

He was trotting up the boarding steps as he spoke, leaving Val with a very hot face and an armful of flowers.

Desmond frowned down at her from the top of the steps.

“Are you coming?”

Val loosened her hold on the flowers and ascended with as much dignity as she could manage. He was grinning so widely when she reached the top that she narrowed her eyes in his direction. “What?”

“You’ve a lovely walk,” he said, and laughed out loud when she swung her handbag at him. She was secretly grateful though, because his nonsense dissolved some of the tension.

“I agree with your design team,” she said with hauteur, ignoring his statement and shouldering her handbag. “It’s too much. Perhaps stick to lavish arrangements in the lounge?”

“We’re having jasmine cultivated specially for the airline,” he confided.

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