The tightness around her ribcage eased at the thought she wouldn’t have to see Zane Khan again until they landed. But then she felt disappointed in herself.
This was going to be an adventure. An adventure she would one day be able to tell her grandchildren. Events had moved much faster than she was comfortable with. But was that really a bad thing?
Impulsiveness was a trait she’d quashed throughout her childhood and teenage years—and she’d persuaded herself it was a good thing she hadn’t had the chance to quash it this time.
Unfortunately, that didn’t make what lay ahead of her any less intimidating or overwhelming. And Zane Khan’s presence did make it that much harder to process, because she didn’t seem to be able to breathe properly when he was near her—let alone process her thoughts. But his decision to start dictating her every move before they’d even left the UK did not bode well for her work.
She wanted to do a thorough job. Which meant she would have to get up the guts to confront His Divine Majesty if she had to.
‘We will be landing in Narabia at eight tomorrow morning,’ Abdallah informed her, his implacable gaze revealing nothing. ‘His Excellency, His Divine Majesty, will speak with you then, before we proceed to the Sheikh’s palace.’
Cat’s pulse hammered her collarbone. The Sheikh’s palace had been built over five hundred years ago on a natural spring, and its architectural splendour was rumoured to rival that of the Taj Mahal, but no photographs existed of it. Only a few pencil drawings done by a British explorer in the nineteen twenties.
She would be the first outsider to see it in generations. She took a deep breath and let it out again to contain the leap of excitement.
Strike one for impulsiveness.
‘Thank you, I look forward to seeing it,’ she said, barely able to stifle her grin as Abdallah excused himself and left.
Her breathing clogged again though, as the plane’s engines rumbled to life. She strapped herself into the leather passenger seat and imagined Zane Khan’s long fingers handling the controls. Her stomach lifted into her throat as the plane raced down the tarmac and rose into the night sky above Cambridge.
There was a three-hour time difference between the UK and Narabia, which gave her approximately nine hours to figure out how she was going to handle her interaction with His Divine Majesty the next time she saw him.
She counted her breaths in and out, as the lights of Cambridge disappeared under the cover of clouds.
Not hyperventilating would be an excellent start.
After a three-course dinner—consisting of Narabian delicacies in a tantalising combination of African and Middle Eastern flavours—Cat managed a fitful four hours’ sleep on the luxurious bed. The last time she woke, to the efficient purr of the plane’s engines, the desert landscape was visible through the cabin windows, only a few thousand feet below.
With only an hour till they landed she rushed her shower—while struggling to get her head around the idea of having a shower on a plane—then dug out her meagre supply of make-up. She rarely wore it, but in this instance the smudge of eyeshadow and the slick of lip gloss should help boost her confidence and her courage.
Donning one of the robes proved a great deal more challenging. The flowing floor-length garment was made of gossamer-thin black silk with stunning gold embroidery at the cuffs and hem. The fitted bodice hooked up the front right to the neck, and included a matching scarf. But what exactly was she supposed to wear underneath it? Was the robe supposed to be worn as a dress or an overgarment?
Even in spring, the desert kingdom would be extremely hot. But the only other items in the closet were other similar robes and an array of delicate underwear. Heat incinerated her cheeks as she ran her fingertips over the transparent lace.
Just the thought of wearing the skimpy undergarments with only a thin layer of silk to cover them in front of Zane Khan had her hyperventilating again. She was nervous enough already. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see she was virtually naked beneath her robe, but she would know.
In the end, she settled for putting on her sturdy cotton bra and panties and one of her maxi summer dresses under the robe. Made for summer in Cambridge, not spring in Narabia, the dress was a great deal heavier than the lightweight material of the robe, and it made the robe itself a bit snug, but the added layer helped to slow her rampaging pulse. After wrestling with the hooks to fasten the front of the robe over her breasts, she tied back her damp hair with an elastic band, draped the exquisitely embroidered scarf over her head and tied the ends at the back of her neck.
Strapping herself in for the landing, she devoured the dramatic sight of the rocky terrain as the plane skimmed over a mountainous region to touch down at a deserted airfield. But as the plane taxied and then came to a stop in front of a large, sleekly modern glass-and-steel hangar, her stomach didn’t quite land with it.
When Abdallah arrived ten minutes later, she’d repaired her make-up twice—and debated about fifty times whether to simply step out of the cabin. Perhaps they had forgotten she was on the plane?
‘His Divine Majesty awaits your presence,’ Abdallah announced, picking up her rucksack.
Play it cool, and remember to keep breathing.
She smoothed sweaty palms down the robe, feeling the bulk of fabric where her dress tightened the fit.
As she stepped out of the cabin her gaze locked on a group of men dressed in robes standing beside the plane’s open door. Or one man in particular, who stood head and shoulders above the rest.
As if he had sensed her presence, Zane Khan turned to face her, and her breath locked in her lungs again.
Breathe, Cat, breathe.
She struggled to regulate her lung function before she passed out. She’d never seen anything so magnificent—or so masculine—as the Sheikh of Narabia in his traditional ceremonial garb.
Her gaze stole up his frame, taking in every aspect of the striking outfit.
Knee-high leather boots shone in the blazing desert sunlight stealing in through the cabin’s door, and moulded to impressive calf muscles. Black cotton trousers hung loose around his long legs to give him ease of movement but did nothing to disguise the powerful muscles in his thighs. A silk sash that matched the extraordinary blue of his eyes provided a startling splash of colour around his lean waist. The long flowing cloak he wore trailed to his knees but any semblance of modesty was belied by the black tunic that hung open at his neck in a deep V, revealing tantalising wisps of chest hair. But it was his dramatic headdress—draped to shade his head and shoulders and the back of his neck and held on with a jewelled gold band around his forehead—and the sabres glinting on his hips and attached by across-the-shoulder leather straps that had Cat’s breath gushing out.
No wonder they call him the Divine Majesty.
He didn’t only look magnificent, he looked indomitable—a man entirely at one with his heritage and his own masculinity. Those pure blue eyes seemed to bore into her through the silk of her own robe—right through the fabric of her dress and the sturdy cotton of her underwear to her palpitating heart. She thanked God she had decided to wear the extra layers, because even with them on she felt naked—every inch of her skin tingling with awareness.
‘Dr Smith,’ he said in that rough, commanding baritone. He held out a hand and hooked a finger, directing her to come to him. ‘I see you found the clothing,’ he said.
All her senses screamed in unison—although she wasn’t sure what they were screaming for her to do, fall into his arms, or run like hell in the opposite direction, because both options seemed viable.
You’re a cat, not a mouse. Move.
Breathing deeply, she stepped forward and laid trembling