‘So?’ she repeated hoarsely.
‘Which is it to be?’
‘Oh.’ He was simply waiting for her to choose between an air-conditioned ride in leather-upholstered comfort, or a flight in a noisy machine that didn’t even have proper wings. Her well-honed instinct for self-preservation was demanding she go for the four-wheeled comfort option.
Her mouth, taking no notice, said, ‘I can live with the helicopter.’
And was rewarded with another of those smiles that bracketed his mouth, fanned around his eyes, as if he knew just how much it had cost her.
‘It’s certainly simpler,’ he said, ‘but if I get scared you will hold my hand, won’t you?’
Lydia, jolted out of her determined reserve by his charm, laughed out loud. Then, when he didn’t join in, she had the weirdest feeling that their entire conversation had been leading up to that question and it was her breath that momentarily caught in her throat.
‘I don’t believe you’re scared of anything,’ she said.
‘Everyone is scared of something, Rose,’ he said enigmatically as he stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to enjoy your book. If you need me for anything I’ll be in the office.’
Showers, bedrooms, now an office…
‘Please, don’t let me keep you from your work,’ she said.
‘Work?’
He said the word lightly, as if it was something he’d never thought of, but a shadow, so brief that she might have missed it had she not been so intent on reading his thoughts, crossed his face and she felt horribly guilty at her lack of gratitude. No matter how inconvenient, this man, purely as a favour, had given up his own time to ensure she had the perfect holiday.
Or was he recalling her earlier slip?
‘For the next seven days you are my first concern,’ he assured her. ‘I’m simply going to check the weather report.’
His first concern.
But then he thought that she was the real thing. And when he turned those midnight-dark eyes on her she so wanted to be real. Not pretending. Just for a week, she thought, as she watched him stride away across the cabin on long, long legs.
This was no time to lose it over a gorgeous face and a buff body and, determined to put him out of her mind, she turned back to her book. She had to read the same paragraph four times before it made sense, but she persevered, scarcely wavering in her concentration even when Kal returned to his chair, this time armed with a book of his own.
She turned a page, taking the opportunity to raise her lashes just enough to see that it was a heavyweight political treatise. Not at all what she’d expect from a man with playboy looks who’d told her that he did nothing ‘seriously’.
But then looks, as she knew better than most, could be deceptive.
Atiya appeared after a while with the dinner menu and to offer them a drink. They both stayed with water. Wasted no time in choosing something simple to eat.
But for the continuous drone of the aircraft engines, the cabin was quiet. Once she lifted her head, stretched her neck. Maybe the movement caught his eye because he looked up too, lifting a brow in silent query. She shook her head, leaned back against the thickly padded seat and looked down at a carpet of clouds silvered by moonlight.
Kal, watching her, saw the exact moment when her eyes closed, her body slackened and he caught her book as it began to slide from her hand. It was the autobiography of a woman who’d founded her own business empire. She’d personally inscribed this copy to Rose.
He closed it, put it on the table. Asked Atiya for a light blanket, which he laid over her. Then, book forgotten, he sat and watched her sleep, wondering what dreams brought that tiny crease to her forehead.
‘Sir,’ Atiya said softly, ‘I’ll be serving dinner in ten minutes. Shall I wake Lady Rose?’
‘I’ll do it in a moment,’ he said. Then, when she’d gone, he leaned forward. ‘Rose,’ he said softly. ‘Rose…’
Lydia opened her eyes, for a moment not sure where she was. Then she saw Kal and it all came rushing back. It hadn’t been a dream, then. She really was aboard a flying palace, one that wouldn’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight. She had an entire week before she had to return to the checkout.
‘What time is it?’ she asked, sitting up, disentangling herself from the blanket that Atiya must have put over her.
‘Seven minutes to eight in London, or to midnight in Ramal Hamrah if you want to set your watch to local time.’
She glanced at her wrist, touched the expensive watch, decided she’d rather do the maths than risk tampering with it.
‘Atiya is ready to serve dinner.’
‘Oh.’ Her mouth was dry, a sure sign that she’d been sleeping with it open, which meant he’d been sitting there watching her drool.
Memo to self, she thought, wincing as she put her feet to the floor, searched with her toes for her shoes. Next time, use the bed.
‘I apologise if I snored.’
His only response was a smile. She muffled a groan. She’d snored, drooled…
‘Late night?’ he asked, not helping.
‘Very,’ she admitted.
She’d had a late shift at the supermarket and, although her mother was determinedly independent, she always felt guilty about leaving her, even for a short time.
‘I was double-checking to make sure that I hadn’t left any loose ends trailing before taking off for a week,’ she replied.
Everything clean and polished.
Fridge and freezer stocked so that Jennie wouldn’t have to shop.
Enough of her mother’s prescription meds to keep her going.
The list of contact numbers double-checked to make sure it was up to date.
While Rose wouldn’t have been faced with that scenario, she’d doubtless had plenty of other stuff to keep her up late before she disappeared for a week.
And, like her, she would have been too wound up with nerves to sleep properly.
‘I’d better go and freshen up,’ she said but, before she could move, Kal was there to offer his hand, ease her effortlessly to her feet so that they were chest to chest, toe to toe, kissing close for a fraction of a second; long enough for her to breathe in the scent of freshly laundered linen, warm skin, some subtle scent that reminded her of a long ago walk in autumn woods. The crushed dry leaves and bracken underfoot.
Close enough to see the faint darkening of his chin and yearn to reach up, rub her hand over his jaw, feel the roughness against her palm.
She’d barely registered the thought before he released her hand, stepped back to let her move and she wasted no time putting some distance between them.
She looked a mess. Tousled, dishevelled, a red mark on her cheek where she’d slept with her head against the leather upholstery. She was going to have to duck her entire head under the cold tap to get it working properly, but she didn’t have time for that. Instead, she splashed her face, repaired her lipstick, brushed the tangles out of her hair and then clasped it at the nape of her neck with a clip she found in the case that Rose had packed for her.
Then she ran through the pre-gig checklist in an attempt to jolt her brain back into the groove.
Smoothed a crease in the linen trousers.
Straightened the fine gold chain so that it lay in an orderly fashion about her neck.
Rehearsed her prompt list of appropriate questions so that there would never be a lull in the conversation.
Putting the situation in its proper context.
