It took her a moment to realise the most dangerous thing in Raffa’s hand was his wallet. ‘You carry money?’
‘Of course I do. What century do you think this is?’
‘And what’s that for?’ She stared suspiciously at the credit card he was holding out to her.
‘Do you have a gown for the ball, Cinderella?’
‘Cinderella?’ Casey’s eyes narrowed.
Raffa clearly enjoyed baiting her. Holding up his hands in mock surrender, he said, ‘Let me put this another way. You surely don’t think I’m such a lousy employer I expect you to pay for the ballgown you’ll be forced to wear at the auction? Think of it as a uniform,’ he said, tongue in cheek. ‘It might sit better with your conscience that way. Unless, of course…’ here he paused, eyes glowing with humour ‘…you have a little something tucked away in your backpack I don’t know about?’
‘Like a catwalk creation?’ As she looked at him her lips threatened rebellion too.
‘Just so long as you don’t turn up in jeans and flip-flops.’
‘Or a safari suit?’ she suggested.
They held each other’s gaze like old friends who were accustomed to teasing each other.
‘You can show this anywhere,’ Raffa explained, holding out his gold card, ‘and buy anything you want. It will all be charged to my account, no questions asked.’
‘Except by me.’ It was Casey’s turn to bring the conversation to a halt. ‘I’m sure I can find something—’
‘Appropriate?’ Raffa cut across her. ‘I’m sure you can too. But I want you to have something special—something that makes you feel like a queen.’
‘And I need to wear something expensive for that?’
‘What you spend is up to you. I just want you to feel good.’
Any more argument and she’d sound churlish, Casey thought, staring at the plastic Raffa was holding out to her.
‘Thank you…’ She took the card and put it safely away.
‘Don’t stint yourself. Shoes, make-up, jewellery— whatever you need, buy.’
His driver arrived, and Raffa explained that he would take Casey wherever she wanted to go. ‘I think you’re going to have fun,’ he said.
And Raffa sounded as if he meant every word. It made her doubly determined to land the job and repay every penny.
CASEY thought she had prepared well enough for her entry into the ballroom, but she was wrong. It was full of the most sophisticated people she had ever seen, all dancing to the strains of a full orchestra, and everyone withoupt exception was in evening dress. Some of the men wore orders over one shoulder, and medals, while the women were in a rainbow-hued selection of couture gowns.
Taking a really deep breath, she tried hanging on to the moment the personal shopper had exclaimed with genuine relief after a whole raft of failures, ‘This is the one!’
She hoped Raffa would approve of the gown. She had tried to strike a balance between modest and fashionable. Anything else in her favour was down to the team of women who had worked on her all day today, endlessly primping and plucking and polishing and buffing. This was their moment, Casey thought, preparing to walk down the steep flight of stairs.
Like every other man with blood running through their veins, he stopped midway through a conversation to stare at Casey, who was standing framed beneath an archway of flowers at the top of the stairs.
She had taken his advice and spoiled herself for once…
Taken his advice? She had gone so far beyond his advice he was transfixed. The diamonds must have come from Harry Winston, and the gown she was wearing—flesh-coloured and form-fitting—defied description. Except to say that it was fabulous.
And so was she.
The gown, in floating silk chiffon, criss-crossed Casey’s breasts before falling in an elegant column to the floor, making her look like a Greek goddess. It exposed her peach-tinted shoulders, but in deference to the traditionalists amongst them she had covered herself with a wisp of beaded silk. Her hair was dressed up, in a way that suited her, with a few tendrils loose around her face, and she hardly needed the fresh flower in the soft blonde chignon to ornament the outfit when she was already the most fragrant woman in the room.
A woman, he noticed now, who had chosen to wear the most ridiculously high-heeled sandals he’d ever seen—which meant he had to get up there before there was an accident. Making his excuses to the ambassador, he headed straight for the loveliest woman in the room.
The most promising candidate, he corrected himself sternly as he strode quickly up the stairs.
The sight of Raffa sweeping up the stairs in regal robes held her spellbound. She should have known the ruler of A’Qaban would be wearing robes of state for such an important event. She should have known that if Raffa had looked good in Savile Row, and even better in jeans, he would look totally fabulous in flowing Arabian robes of night-blue silk.
‘May I escort you?’ he said, offering his arm. ‘Take it,’ he insisted firmly, ‘before you land in a heap at the feet of the people you’re expecting to cajole and charm tonight.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty…’ Aware that the eyes of the room were upon them, she dropped a low curtsey, and as she did so she registered a huge erotic charge. Playing dress-up with a king was far more exciting than any fantasy she’d ever managed to come up with.
He was pleased to see how greatly Casey had grown in confidence, but a little less pleased to realise they were both intensely aware of each other, even in a room full of people. He knew she could feel his interest, and he liked the fact that Casey’s gaze was no longer uncertain, but direct, intelligent, and challenging enough to hold his interest. Added to which, she walked like a queen at his side, and he found her company a source of constant stimulation as he introduced her round. But none of that was good for business—or for his vaunted self-control.
The rustle of Raffa’s heavy blue silk robes made her think of the hard-muscled form underneath. As he moved around the ballroom introducing her to people it was a struggle not to be distracted—something every other woman present was having trouble with too, Casey noticed. Who could blame them when Raffa’s charm was edged with hard and rugged splendour? His robes were trimmed with gold, like the agal on his headdress, and there was a dangerous-looking dagger at his waist. And a tassel at his neck…
She leaned a little closer, inhaling as she realised the tassel was scented.
‘Do you like the aroma of vanilla and sandalwood?’ he murmured.
She blushed and pulled away, realising she had invaded the ruler of A’Qaban’s personal space to an unforgivable degree. ‘I like it very much…’ Was it possible not to like the scent of warm, clean, sexy man?
‘You’re right in thinking the tassel is scented,’ he explained. ‘It’s part of my traditional dress, like the khanjar at my waist—my dagger,’ he prompted.
‘Your dagger?’ Casey repeated, feeling this was edging dangerously close to verbal foreplay.
‘You may have noticed that the royal khanjar has a pommel that is smaller than the rest.’
Was he teasing her?
‘Oh…’ Must she sound quite so disappointed?
‘But it is heavily weighted and sharpened on both edges,’ he went on, his lips tugging in the suspicion of a smile. ‘It is infinitely more