She realised that Gabe was still looking at her from the other side of the desk. Still waiting for some kind of explanation. She flashed him a slightly self-conscious smile.
‘Actually, it’s a man.’
‘It usually is,’ he offered drily. ‘Would that be the reason why you had your skirt on inside out yesterday morning?’
‘Oh, Gabe!’ She clapped her palms to her flaming cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry. I only realised when I came out of the meeting and Alice pointed it out.’
‘Forget it. I only mention it because the client did—so perhaps best not to repeat it. Anyway.’ He smiled. ‘What’s his name? This man.’
She could hear her voice softening as she said it. ‘It’s Suleiman Abd al-Aziz—’
Gabe’s eyes narrowed ‘The oil baron?’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
He smiled. ‘Unlike princesses, global magnates tend not to stay anonymous for very long.’
‘No, I suppose not. The thing is, I was thinking...’ She twisted her fingers together in her lap and wondered what was making her feel so nervous. Actually, that wasn’t true. She knew exactly what was making her nervous. On some instinctive level, she was terrified of Suleiman meeting her powerful and very sexy boss. ‘I wanted Suleiman to get a bit of an idea about what my job’s about. I told him about the massive campaign we did for that new art gallery in Whitechapel—and I thought that I might bring him along to the opening tonight. If that’s all right.’
‘Excellent. You do that.’ Gabe looked at her expectantly. ‘And now, if we’re through with all the personal details—can you get me the drawings for the Hudson account?’
Noting the slight reprimand, Sara opened up the folder she’d carried in with her and worked hard on the account for the rest of the afternoon. She sent Alice out for coffee and tried ringing Suleiman to tell him about the gallery opening, but he wasn’t answering his phone.
It was gone six by the time she arrived back home to find the apartment filled with the smell of cinnamon and oranges. She wondered if Suleiman had ordered something in and whether he’d just forgotten that she had the opening tonight.
Because mealtimes had proved another stumbling block, mainly because Suleiman was used to having servants cater to his every whim. He liked food to arrive when he wanted it—usually after sex. He was not interested in the mechanics of getting it, not of shopping for it nor having Sara rustle him up a meal. So far they had compromised by eating out every night, but sometimes she just wanted to kick off her shoes and scoff toast on the sofa.
She followed the direction of the aroma out to the kitchen, and blinked in surprise to see Suleiman leaning over the hob, adding something to a pot. It was such an incongruous sight—and so rare to see him in jeans—that for a moment she just stood there, feasting her eyes on his powerful frame and thick dark hair. The denim clung to his narrow hips, it hugged the muscular shaft of his long legs and she had to swallow down her instant feeling of lust.
‘Wow. This is a sight for sore eyes,’ she said softly. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Wondering why it’s so difficult to buy fresh apricots in central London.’ He turned round, his black eyes glittering as he curved her a smile. ‘Actually, I’m trying to impress my liberated princess by producing a meal, after she’s spent a hard day at the office.’
Putting her handbag down on the counter, she walked over to him and looped her arms around his neck. ‘I didn’t know you cooked.’
‘That’s because I rarely do these days. But as you know, I once served in the Qurhahian army,’ he said, bending to brush his mouth over hers. ‘Where even men who had been spoilt by living in palaces were taught the basics of food prep.’
She laughed, lifting her lips for a proper kiss and within seconds she was lost in it. And so was he. Suddenly food was forgotten. Everything was forgotten, except the need to have him as close to her as possible. Her fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling it open to reveal his bare chest—not caring that several buttons went bouncing all over the stone tiles of the kitchen floor.
She tugged impatiently at his belt and he gave a low laugh as he pushed her up against the door. Rucking up her dress, he ripped her panties apart and her muffled protest was stifled with a hungry kiss. She could hear the rasp of his zip and the buoyant weight of his erection as it sprang free. She reached down to touch him, her fingertips skating over his silken hardness before he removed her hand. Cushioning the weight of her bottom with his hands, he positioned himself where she was hot and wet for him and thrust deep inside her.
Her legs wrapped tightly around his hips, Sara clung to him as they rocked in rhythm, but it was over very quickly. Her head wilted like a cut flower as she leaned it against his shoulder and her voice was sleepy in his ear.
‘Nice,’ she murmured.
‘Is that the best you can do? I was hoping for something a little more lyrical than “nice”.’
‘Would stupendous work better?’
‘Stupendous is a good word,’ he said.
‘Listen.’ She kissed his neck. ‘Do you want to go to the opening of that gallery in Whitechapel? The one I told you about? It’s tonight.’
He lifted up a handful of hair and brushed his lips against her neck. ‘No, I don’t—and neither do you. Let’s just stay home. I’m making dinner and afterwards I’m sure we can find ways to amuse ourselves.’