The Scandal Behind the Wedding. Bella Frances
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Her heels sank and she stumbled a little, trying to keep up. He turned, shot her an intense steadying look, and then scooped her close to his side. She heard the rumble of the commotion now above them.
‘What about your team?’
‘I’ve told them what to do and say if they get into trouble. They’ll be fine as long as they remember.’ He paused for another second, gave her another calming look. ‘You’ll be fine too.’
She could only hope so. She’d been warned when she’d arrived in Dubai—they all had—not to get into any trouble. Especially with the police. She worked for an international school with hugely high standards and any fun was to be had within strict boundaries.
But who would believe she was innocent? That she had come to this party thinking she might find a date? She looked just like those girls—with a tight dress and too much make-up. If she got taken to the police station she’d have to tell them where she lived. Then they’d know she worked at the international school. And that would be it. She’d be sent home in disgrace. Or worse. Jailed.
They were out in the hallway again. Same golden light, same bubbling fountain. But one floor down.
A solid door—mother-of-pearl. He slid a key and pulled it open. A private elevator, all glass and brass.
‘In here.’
She wavered. For a moment it felt as if she was on the cusp of the hugest decision of her life.
‘Is this safe? Is it going to be all right?’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Look, you’ll be fine. I know enough people here to get things sorted. I think we’ll be fine up here—away from the main action—until things settle.’
He cocked one eyebrow. “Okay?”
She nodded and followed him—decision made.
Inside, with the doors closed, up it zoomed, flying up the outer edge of the building. They had to be at the very top now—in a penthouse.
Finally the doors opened and, yes, sure enough …
Wow! This was a Honeymoon, Presidential, Penthouse—and then some. An entire picture wall of glass to her right, the perfect array of furniture to lounge upon and view it from to her left—all overhung with a deep, high balcony and lit by enormous silk-shaded lamps. Glimpses of stairs leading to a rooftop terrace, of other rooms—opulent, magnificent, utterly unparalleled. A grand piano here, a twenty-seat table there. Art on the walls that she definitely recognised. She felt as if even the air was weightier, worthier.
He led her inside.
‘Is this okay while we wait?’ He moved in through the space, perfectly at home.
She trailed behind him, wary of this luxury, unease twisting at her gut. She was not the type of girl who ever got into trouble. Not at school. Not at college. Not at home. Never. She knew right from wrong. And the only wrong thing she’d ever done was to believe in her fairytale engagement.
‘Hey. It’s all right.’ Danny stopped. Walked back to face her. Looked right at her and ran his hands up and down her arms.
She gazed up at him, desperately trying to keep it together. ‘I can’t afford to get into trouble. I need my job. It’s all I have.’
He nodded and she felt strangely reassured. She had no reason to trust him, but her instincts told her she was better off in this majestic wonderland with him than back at that party arguing her point alone. And it wasn’t only the fact that he radiated composure. There was no denying the unmistakable sensual tension he was building as he soothed and stroked her arms.
His eyes dropped to her mouth. She licked her lips.
But he shook his head, sucked in a breath through his teeth and led her to the low-seated area. ‘Why don’t you sit here? I’m going to make a couple of calls.’
His voice was low, lilting and calming. But his energy was tense. And she felt it. Oh, yes.
He stood beside her as she sat down warily, felt firm stuffed silk cushions against her back. From a tiny Aladdin’s lamp on the table at her side a drift of scented oil wound around her, languorous and loose. Opposite, ivory orchids in golden pots along the window wall sat like daubs of paint on a canvas of blue, marred only by the gleam and thrust of yet another iconic superstructure rearing up out of the Gulf.
He let go of her hand but trailed his touch up her arm and gently under her chin. She tilted her head to look at him. He locked that gaze on her again. So strong. Unyielding.
He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was doing or why. Touched a finger to her lips, nodded slightly, and then turned. Took a pace away and swiped out his phone.
‘Sarwar? Hey. It’s Danny. Look, I need a favour …’
RISK. AND THE management thereof. Normally one of his strong suits. Normally something he took a lot of pride in being very, very good at. The kind of deals he made required it. And although he’d had all of five minutes’ formal training—in other words read some stuff on the net—he’d become so well respected for the completely researched, planned and executed-within-a-hair’s-breadth decisions he made that his view was sought on projects well outside his own corporate boundaries.
So what on earth was he doing, tucked in the penthouse of the Al-Jafar, having bailed out of a highly dodgy party with an utterly gorgeous redhead who had caused chaos since he’d first slapped eyes on her?
Just getting out of her car she had been impressive. She probably didn’t even know that one guy had kerbed his coupé in the parking bay at the entrance as he watched her swing into the hotel. And that another guy had been slapped out of his daydream by his wife as he’d stared open-mouthed at her walking through the lobby. Danny had truly never seen a woman walk with such an unconscious sense of her own sexual allure.
And Tommy in the lift … If it hadn’t been so crass it would have been funny. It was as if the guy had been in a trance. His eyes had roamed all over the lovely Georgia, standing right there, her perfect breasts outlined in easily the sexiest piece of clothing he had ever seen. Okay, it was up to her neck and down to her knees—Dubai-appropriate—but nothing short of a tent could cover a body like that.
Tommy hadn’t even known he’d touched her—or so he’d said when he’d given him ‘the talk’ back in the lift. This was not a town where you stepped out of line in public. You just couldn’t risk it. Even when the eye candy was as sweet as their little lift companion. Even he’d had to fight to keep his eyes respectfully at eye rather than chest level.
But now they had a situation to deal with. And one he’d never imagined when he’d accepted the invitation to come here. He’d thought his views on this kind of thing were well enough known for his business partners to leave out sweeteners like these. Still, this one had been set up by a new guy in town who probably assumed all red-blooded males liked to pay their way. Not him. No way. Never had and never would.
But how the lovely Georgia had ended up there was another thing. She’d looked shocked when they’d arrived. Standing in the middle of all that madness like Joan of Arc. A particularly sexy Joan of Arc, but definitely in a different class from the girls who were offering themselves for rent. She had an air about her … dignity. Now, even with cops prowling all over the place and the fallout that was highly likely, she looked poised as a princess sitting on that sofa.
But he would find out more about her later—he had to focus on damage limitation right now. He clicked off the phone. Sarwar would smooth things. As the General Commander of Police he usually could. He was a handy ally to have—that was for sure. His only other concern was the press—the Dubai snappers were getting a bit invasive and he really didn’t want any photos flying over satellites to his mother’s news feed. He’d spent ten solid years