Page 52 of In the Hands of the Sheikh

“Emma,” he said without looking up, “hurry up and be seated so that we can leave. If you take any longer, we’re likely to miss our flight spot.”

She stifled her indignant retort and moved down the plane to the lounge area. He nodded towards the armchair beside his. She sat into it, marveling at the obscene comfort of the thing.

With a guttural noise of frustration, Rafiq stood and hovered above her, his green eyes finally locking with hers. He thought, out of nowhere, how well Amar’an clothes suited her. Far better than western suits. She looked incredibly exotic and bewitching in that outfit.

“Seatbelt,” he said sternly, leaning down and putting the strap low across her hips. He knew he didn’t imagine the way her breath hitched in her throat as his hands hovered at her waist, only centimeters from her most feminine heart. Up close, he could smell her sweet perfume, something floral and light, and he felt a kick of arousal in his gut.

She was going to hate him in a couple of hours, that was a given. In time, though, she might get over what he was about to do. But there was no way she’d ever forgive him if he acted on his attraction to her. Though she had the wrong end of the stick, it was not the time, nor place, to enlighten her.

He took his seat, buckled his own belt and then pressed a button on his phone. Immediately, as if remote controlled, Emma felt the plane lurch backwards and her old fear of flying resurfaced sharply.

“I suppose your plane has all the same safety checks as regular commercial jets,” she said softly, toying nervously with the gems at the collar of her gown.

He slid her a sidelong glance, “Of course, Emma. More, if anything. You forget that I am ruler of a country. Do you think I’m allowed to travel on anything that isn’t extensively secured?”

He had intended to reassure her but, hearing his sentence now, he felt an unusual compunction. He had sounded arrogant.

“You do not need to worry,” he tried again, seeing the way her face had drained of color. “It is a short flight.”

She frowned. It had taken about sixteen hours on the way over, but then again, she’d had to come via Chicago and London. Emma settled back in the seat, oblivious to the fact the Sheikh was watching her. She just wanted to click her heels together three times and be home…

* * *

It was Christmas time, and she was sitting across the table from Cassandra and Rafiq. They had their perfect baby, only it wasn’t a baby anymore. None of them had aged, but they had a six year old girl, who was the perfect physical interpretation of the two genetically blessed people who had combined to create her. And Rafiq, his face tanned, his lips full, was watching her. “Time for a Christmas kiss from my sister-in-law,” he said in his accented voice, and Emma’s heart raced, because she knew he knew that she was in love with him.

Guitar music filtered across the

table, and Emma frowned, because she was a stickler for traditions and Christmas carols were almost all she listened to from Thanksgiving to New Years Eve. The guitar music got louder and she blinked her eyes open blearily, confronted by fluorescent lighting and a strange humming noise.

It wasn’t Christmas! She was on the airplane. Her eyes flew wide as she turned to the seat beside her. Rafiq’s green eyes lanced through her. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

She sucked in an agonized breath. “I do not!”

“I am surprised no one has ever mentioned it to you before.”

She dipped her head, unconsciously shying away from the implied question. Who would have mentioned it to her? As a girl, Cassandra had teased her about the secrets she let slip overnight, but since she’d been at college, she hadn’t shared a room with anyone.

She rubbed her eyes with her palms. “Where are we?”

“You have had a good sleep; we are nearly there. Are you hungry?”

“I must have slept forever.” She craned to peek outside the window but it was just black, as far as the eye could see.

“Are you hungry?”

His concern was surprising. She realized that she was. She’d skipped breakfast and things had been so hectic since then that she had not had a chance to eat. “Starving,” she answered honestly.

He picked the phone up from the armrest of his chair and spoke into it. Fatima appeared minutes later, carrying a steaming tray of vegetables with a light curry sauce.

“Thank you, Fatima,” Emma said with a polite smile. The food was delicious, but she could hardly enjoy it because she was so hyper-aware of the man sitting beside her the whole time. She felt gauche and young, and incredibly, frustratingly attracted to him.

“Emma, tell me. Why did you fly half way around the world to do your sister’s bidding for her?”

Emma paused, fork halfway to her lips. She placed it back on the tray. “What would you have had me do?”

He shrugged. “I’m asking about you. Why did you not leave her to sort her own mess out?”

“Mess!” She said, louder than she’d intended. And then, at his warning glare, she lowered her voice. “This is not a mess. This baby is going to be loved and adored, however you might feel about it. If you’re coming to America just to say stupid stuff like that, then I’m starting to seriously regret having told you.”

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