Page 235 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

“And you smell…” He dipped his nose into the hollow of her throat, even as his hands closed round her waist, made tiny by the best corsetry that money could buy. It was distressing, how easily her body softened against his. This wasn’t for show because they were the only ones in sight. They were alone, and he seemed as eager to touch her as she was to allow him.

“Just practicing for inside, yes?” he said in such self-mockery that she had to laugh. It sounded unnatural, even to her. What a disaster they were!

But maybe for tonight, and tonight only…?

How many times, her inner voice jeered at her, was she going to use that excuse to justify falling into bed with him?

“Desmond,” she began, then stopped. The gentle knuckles on her cheek were traveling down, down to her chest, where her dress dipped dangerously low.

“Hind called and warned me you’d have a neckline that needed good jewelry,” he said, and there was a smile in his voice.

“I’ve an enormous ring. I don’t need anything else.”

“You’re my wife, and every business magnate, socialite and princess will be in attendance this evening.” He paused. “This isn’t just for us—this is about the deal. His Excellency accepted my proposal yesterday.”

“He did?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” His voice was quiet and warm, and that hand of his was still exploring. The quiet hum of insects, the smell of jasmine, the gleaming door, the shadows, the dancing lights…it lent this night a fairy-tale quality that made her a little dizzy. Her breasts tingled and her awareness of him grew all the more intense. She flinched when she felt something cold and hard slide over her skin, but relaxed when she realized that he was fastening something round her neck.

“Sapphires,” he said. “Turn your head—there are earrings, too.”

She did so, dutifully, standing quietly as he took off her simple, classic studs and holding still as he put them in her ears. He dropped the earrings he’d removed into her hand. “You’d better put these in your handbag, if you’ve got one.”

She did, numb fingers fighting with the clasps on her clutch. She glanced at her reflection in a dark window and what she saw was a woman so sophisticated she barely recognized herself. As if in a dream or a sequence from a surreal film, she saw Desmond reach out, turn her around, and lower his lips to hers. Softly. Assuredly. And feeling, she thought with a twinge of panic, not one bit like pulling away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WAS THIS WHATit was like, being so absolutely consumed by a woman that it drove out all other thoughts?

It was as if Desmond was floating above the realities of both their lives, elevated by the magic of the evening. His self-imposed seclusion from the world didn’t come into play. The fact that this whole thing was built on a lie. Her marriage, for goodness’ sake. He’d meant to stay away from her as much as he could, but he couldn’t keep his hands—his lips—from devouring her skin and mouth any more than he could keep from breathing. He smelled vanilla and sun-warmed flowers and the distinct sweet musk of her skin—a sweetness that had clung to him in memory since their first encounter.

He didn’t know how long they kissed in the darkness outside that palace of gold; all he knew was that it was something he’d longed for. When the doors creaked open and they sprang apart just in time to make themselves decent, and both laughter and applause spilled out onto the entryway, he glanced at her face, her lovely, starry-eyed face, and for the first time in almost a decade he wondered. He wondered if this wasn’t something he might want after all, although he knew in his heart that he didn’t deserve it.

Sheikh Rashid’s round benevolent face beamed out at them; Hind was at his elbow, resplendent in rainbow-colored silk that drifted round her in bright waves. At her elbow was a gaggle of young women that Desmond recognized vaguely from local social media; the curly-haired girl, he knew, was from Egypt and married to a Jamaican real estate mogul, and a tall, thin Emirati woman in a lavender pearl-studded abaya had her own skincare line…

“Some pictures, please, maybe?” Hind suggested, and they were lost in a haze of flashbulbs. Hind told them breathlessly that she was lighting up her stories with clips of the party.

“Don’t tag me in anything!” Val yelled, to Desmond’s amusement, but she might as well have been calling to the wind. Her charge was off in a cloud of Tom Ford and yet another bevvy of rich housewives were there to kiss her cheeks, to look critically at her dress and to whisper behind jeweled hands to their friends about the nobody from nowhere who’d managed to entice this handsome, wealthy young entrepreneur into marriage. They’d googled him of course. Aside from some very well-curated photos, his profile was as scanty as hers.

“Just let the girl have her fun,” he whispered in her ear after the last of the well-wishes had been shared and the ladies melted into the crowd.

“I can’t.” He could tell that Val’s teeth were gritted, even under the layers of contour and highlighter she wore. Her fingers were tight on his arm. “I’m married, in case you forgot!”

“You’re also in Asia,” he said dryly. “And trust me, almost nothing that happens in this region is going to register over there.”

“I’d thank younotto make any generalizations about my country. And you’re wrong.” Val looked about ready to faint. “There was the World Cup, don’t forget, and I was just approached by a producer fromDubai Bling.”

“So?”

“So? It’s on Netflix!”

“I’ll ensure any stories stay buried,” he said.

“You can’t. That’s not how social media works.” She looked resigned now, although she was still fingering the sapphires at her neck as if they were choking her. “I hate secrets,” she said, her voice wavering as if she were near tears.

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