by Alam, Donna
His eyes gleam devilishly as he waves away my words. ‘I know that; get to the bits I don’t already know.’
‘I was going to say my name is actually Katherine. With a K. Though I prefer Kate, and that only Niamh calls me Kat or Kitty or other . . . variances and that no one has ever called me Kitten before.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. You can’t have purred for anyone else.’ I blink slowly, resisting the urge to comment; when you’re right, you’re right but I’m so not going to tell him that. ‘Go on. I need more.’
Oh, god. More. About me.
My neck works as I swallow over the lump in my throat, but I quickly get a hold of myself; I don’t have to share more than I’m comfortable with. The bare bones of the life of Kate.
‘Well, I, er, I’m from Palm Beach in Queensland. On the Gold Coast? But usually I tell people I’m from Brisbane, to avoid confusion and that’s where I lived . . . last.’ I clear my throat. ‘Most people don’t know where . . . anyway, it’s not as glamorous as the other Palm Beach, or, you know, its namesake, in America?’ I try very hard not to squeak the last word, my voice rendering the words a question. ‘Not that I’ve ever been there, or anything.’ Inhale. ‘I’m not much of a beach bunny.’ Engage brain cells. ‘And I’ve never drank as much as I have since moving here. I like cake and I’m probably going to need to detox soon.’
With each rambling word, his smile grows exponentially. ‘That’s it?’ he asks as I finish. ‘That’s all you’re willing to share?’
I shrug but don’t open my mouth.
‘Where are the tales of yearning for adventure, escaping mad boyfriends, unrequited affections and torrid love affairs?’
‘You’ve obviously never been to Palm Beach. The most exciting thing that happens there is when the surf club changes the menu.’
‘Lots of words without information, Kitten.’ The corner of his mouth quirks as he pauses. ‘What about . . .’ He straightens in his chair. ‘Okay, if you were a car what kind would you be?’
‘What, are we twelve all of a sudden?’
‘It’s just a bit of fun, trying to crack that shell.’ He’s all wide smiles and gorgeous hair and I wouldn’t be surprised to find he beguiles everyone in his path.
Gesturing to the waiter with an almost invisible motion, Kai issues instructions in rapid-fire Arabic.
‘For instance, I would be a Bentley Continental,’ he says, still amused. ‘Because I’m a new take on the traditional model, have plenty of staying power, my stylish exterior masking just a couple of unexpected kinks.’ Expansive hands and golden eyes ask, ‘And you would be?’
I stare back, suddenly stumped. What kind of kinks is he talking about here? Euphemistic ones, I hope. And me? A banger? No, that doesn’t sound right. A station wagon because of the junk in my trunk?
‘It’s not a test,’ he adds laughing and startling me into speech.
‘I think I’d probably be like . . . a bike. A push bike. A bicycle,’ I qualify, digging a larger hole. ‘What I mean is, I’m not very fast or sleek. Slow and steady’s more my style. With just one previous owner.’
Sometimes I even astound myself, I’m just that dumb. D.U.M. dumb, not even bright enough to qualify for the final B. I burn with embarrassment as Kai’s shoulders begin to shake. I guess bike has the same connotations in Dubai.
‘Gently used?’ he splutters.
‘Not particularly.’
Maybe I should just be struck dumb for my own defence.
His laughter slows, smile fading and replaced by confusion. But the waiter, my unwitting saviour again, prevents my death from shame by placing a silver tray on the table. On it stands two ornate tumblers, each containing a little ice, a blue glass bottle with an ornate Arabic label, a small silver jug with a long, ladle-like handle. Oh, and a bottle of water, sourced from Italy, of course, the kind that costs ten bucks a pop.
Dismissing him, Kai pours liquid from the blue bottle into the odd looking jug. Next, he adds water before pouring the clear liquid mixture into the glasses of ice. Strangely, as the liquid touches the ice, it becomes milk.
‘Arak,’ he says, handing me a glass, raising his. ‘It’s an aperitif from Lebanon. If you can handle afternoon martinis’. . .’
Sniffing tentatively, I inhale the pleasant, liquorice aroma before taking a sip. I come up spluttering, the alcohol burning the back of my throat. It travels my oesophagus, a warming bloom travelling in its wake.
‘Whoa, that’s got some kick.’ I wheeze, placing the glass down. ‘Let me catch my breath. Your turn. What does a lawyer-slash-member-of-the-board do?’
‘Legal work mainly. In the family business.’ He shrugs, examining his glass. ‘Or rather, family businesses. A despot in training, to be master of all I survey.’ His mouth twists ironically.
‘Are you an only child?’
‘Not exactly. I’m my mother’s only child and I have the dubious privilege of being my father’s only son, as he reminds me often enough. You’re looking at his pride and joy, failure and fuck up, depending on which way the wind blows. And I can’t believe I just told you that.’ His gaze slides away, both embarrassed and amused.
His light words may scream subtext but beyond guessing divorce or affairs, I haven’t a clue. To cover his discomfort, I add, ‘It’s because I’m so warm.’
‘Warm,’ he repeats, bringing the glass to his mouth again. ‘I’d say hot.’ His eyes smoulder over the rim. ‘And I believe it’s your turn again.’
Hooley-dooley! I don’t respond for a moment, just stare at him before remembering I need to speak.
‘I told you, I’m pretty boring. No siblings and I’ve lived in Australia my whole life. Other than a trip to Bali, this is the only other time I’ve been overseas. I went to an all girls’ school, uni in Brisbane then straight back to the same school to teach. See.’ I shrug. ‘Pretty lame.’
‘An all girls’ school? Religious?’ he asks, attention caught. ‘Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt?’ Placing the glass down, he folds his arms across his chest with a satisfied grin.
‘Should I even ask?’
‘Your anxiety,’ he answers with a massive smile, ‘waking in my bed. Guilt, sin; the usual dogmatic repression. Haven’t you heard, chaste is waste?’
‘I bet you’ve got that on a t-shirt.’
‘It’s like the saying goes, a dirty mind is a joy forever. Still, it’ll make it all the more fun when you eventually let go.’
His words ripple across my skin like some kind of cautionary touch. I wonder if he means it’ll be more fun for me, or him. Because if he means him, that implies I’ll be around a while, while on the other hand . . . I think I’ll stop overthinking now.
‘I—I’ll bear that in mind.’ Wildly scanning topics of conversation on a more neutral ground, I find myself asking, ‘So, what do you do for fun?’
God, how Grade 8. Like, I literally can’t even . . . right now.
‘When I’m not rescuing women from ladders?’
‘Yeah, when you’ve left your chivalry in your other pants and the valiant steed tied in the yard.’
‘I work, I travel. And as for a valiant steed, I suppose I do like fast cars. And whiskey.’ He frowns curiously as he reaches for his glass. ‘I also like you.’
I swallow the remainder of my drink forgetting its potency and bite. Spluttering and coughing, I try to ingest his words through the arak.
‘Careful, it’s pretty powerful stuff.’
‘It’s not the drink,’ I mumble, standing abruptly and coughing still. ‘Excuse me.’ I tug at the hem of my dress before moving, instincts intervening and telling me I need a little distance. A moment to gather my wits. Yes, I’m off to the bathroom to have a stiff word with myself. To avoid the kind of stiff Kai has my libido crying out for right now.
He stands along with me, his fingers brushing my hand as I pass. ‘Hurry back.’
This isn’t going as I’d planned.
I touch water to my temples like som
e damsel in distress. This is so scary. It’s almost like I’ve been so long out of the dating game I have no idea how to play. He likes me, this much I can tell, but on the scale of one to casual where do I stand? Does he really want to get to know me, be my friend? Date me, or just do the dance with no pants again? And what happened to my avoiding men? Shouldn’t I be concentrating on learning to be on my own?
I’m so out of my depths, I’m probably risking the bends.
Staring in the powder-room mirror doesn’t enlighten me one bit, so I return to the table muttering a reminder, mantra-like, I’m going to go home alone.
Kai isn’t at the table but standing at the far end of the room, one half of a tense conversation with a tall, dark man. Not wanting to interrupt, I take my seat. The table has been mostly cleared but for the arak and our glasses, plus an additional two. To accompany these is a bottle of Krug, cooling in a bucket of ice on a stand.
Not going at all as I’d planned.
While I don’t think I could continue with the arak and expect to retain the use of my legs, champagne is meant for a celebration and I’m . . . going home alone?
Pondering my predicament—expensive champagne; can I really say no?—I watch the waiter approach as he’s intercepted by an older man. Bowing differentially to whatever is said, old bovine-lashes turns back the way he came. The stranger, smiling widely, heads my way.
‘Allow me, my dear.’ His avuncular tone does not put me at ease.
‘No, really, I’m good thanks.’ I raise my arak in indication, but he doesn’t answer beyond peering down a blade-straight nose as he continues to peel the foil sleeve. ‘Anyway, my mum told me never to accept drinks from strangers.’
He laughs—a sound like suede. He’s good looking, if you have a thing for older guys, which I don’t: dark hair with a touch of distinguished at the temples and deep, brown eyes. Stylish, too; very monochromatic Armani. Dark slacks and a fine knit sweater, cashmere, I’ll bet.
‘Your mother is obviously very wise.’
My mother is a pain in my arse. And I don’t have daddy issues. I’m about to tell him so when Kai reappears looking very dark and broody eyed.
‘Abi.’
The tiny word sounds like an insult, the stranger’s head turning slowly toward Kai’s. My own swings comically between the pair as they stare at one another, one set of eyes blazing, the other quite benign.
‘Katherine.’ Kai doesn’t look at me, his eyes unmoving from the stranger. ‘May I introduce my father, Faris Al Khalfan. Abi, this is my friend, Katherine.’
Chapter Sixteen
I stare between father and son and blink rapidly, the physical resemblance now clear.
‘I’m pleased to meet you.’ I’m more bemused than pleased, but I hold out my hand automatically, as custom dictates.
‘Delighted.’ His father’s hand slips from mine to clasp his son’s shoulder. Kai looks uncomfortable with the action. Unimpressed. ‘Katherine . . . ?’
‘Saunders,’ I supply automatically.
‘And where did you meet my son?’
‘At brunch,’ Kai interjects. ‘Kate is a teacher at the American school.’ His gaze glides to mine as smooth as his reply. It seems he’s as good on his feet as he is horizontal. After all, we met at Al Mishael. Where I work. The school his family owns. Hell.
‘Ah, a teacher,’ replies his father, contemplative. ‘I wasn’t aware the American school employed teachers from outside its system. You’re Australian, my dear? Such a distinctive accent, I find.’
An awkward silence descends and somehow I feel it’s my responsibility to fill the space. I’m a hopeless liar but struck by a sudden idea, I go with it, albeit bewildered.
‘I have experience in the IB, the International Baccalaureate.’ Not true but it seems credible enough as my brow furrows, though I try not to examine too deeply why I’ve just lied.
‘Quite so?’ He turns now to Kai. ‘You seem to find the most engaging companions. You had brunch with Sofia last weekend, were both ladies your guests?’
And that would be the supermodel, then. Sofia. Even her name is glamorous. So-fee-a. And being around Kai must have affected my imagination because, that totally sounded like he meant something else. An après-sex-brunch-ménage thing? My brain must be broke.
Kai doesn’t answer, preferring instead to glower at his dad. Strange, but he, at least, seems amused.
‘Speaking of the lady in question, I ran into her yesterday. She seemed most anxious to see you.’
Kai’s countenance visibly darkens; a look to freeze an ocean but he offers no reply.
‘Oh, she endured my company kindly enough, though I’m sure I was a poor substitute.’ His father waves an airy hand now looking quite smug.
‘Of course she did,’ Kai responds, sardonic.
‘It’s a wise father—’
‘Save it for someone with the inclination, Father.’
I’m confused by the exchange. The nuances I read pretty clearly: shades and tones of antagonism and get fucked, but the topic. I haven’t a clue?
‘As entitled as you feel to this discussion, I’m afraid I can’t take part right now.’ Kai grasps my elbow like I’m his elderly aunt. ‘Miss Saunders was just leaving.’
I murmur a hasty goodbye, almost stumbling in Kai’s haste. A quick glance at the exit shows his father still watching us, his gaze almost calculating. The whole incidence leaves me very confused.
I stay silent in the elevator. I haven’t a clue what to say. I want to ask what that was all about, but families can be a touchy topic, I know. Besides, the aggressive looking tic in Kai’s jaw suggests now is not a good time to pry. He flicks through his phone while I silently scold myself for noticing the very minutiae of his expression, meanwhile I may as well be chopped liver. Uninviting and ignored.
‘I apologize. My father is . . .’ My eyes rise to meet his tentative smile. ‘. . . a difficult man. It would’ve been unwise to mention that you work at Al Mishael in view of our friendship. Thank you for going along with my misdirection.’
Friendship. Is that what this is, a friends with benefits kind of thing? In doing who I want, I should be fine with this label, so I attempt to fix an appropriate expression on my face.
‘Parents.’ I nod sagely, I think. ‘We all have our baggage. Some of us have parents we’d like to shove in a bag. But the woman I saw you with at brunch, Sofia?’ I stop myself. Our type of friendship probably doesn’t extend to those kinds of explanations.
‘A casual thing.’ His eyes flick upwards, having resumed interest in his phone.
‘At least you fed her breakfast before kicking her out, right?’
I’m not sure my delivery is as light as I’d intended, the acid washing through my stomach spills snark from my mouth. Kai’s head slowly rises, probably realising what he’s said or rather, to whom.
‘It sounds callous—’
‘You think?’
He presses a button on the control panel, the elevator gliding to a stop. One glance at the illuminated buttons shows we weren’t on our way to the ground floor, but rather heading up. To his suite.
‘Sofia and I have, or rather, had an understanding. No strings attached and no getting involved. I apologize if that sounds unfeeling, but that is how things stood. For both of us.’
My eyebrows creep toward my hairline; incredulity and a non-verbal enquiry into his use of past tense.
‘We are no longer involved.’
‘So it’s over, your friends with benefits deal?’
‘I never said she and I were friends.’
He touches the panel again and the elevator begins to move.
At his suite, I allow him to take my hand as we cross the threshold, when suddenly, he pushes his hands into my hair and my body back against the closed door.
‘Tell me you don’t want me,’ he dares, eyes ablaze. ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’
I place my hands against his chest and push him away a little; I want to see his fa
ce. ‘I’m not sure I want to be that kind of friend,’ I reply solemnly.
He doesn’t speak, his features giving little away. But then, as he blinks, I can almost see a storm brewing there. My stomach does a little flip in response. And not an oh, fuck he’s cross kind of flip, but more of a guh, fuck, he’s sexy kind of thing. His fingers tighten in my hair and like a marionette with cut strings, my knees begin to give. I don’t have to worry about falling as he presses himself against me, forcing a needy sort of exhale from my throat. But I don’t get it; my reactions are utterly irrational. The man is angry and I’m turned on. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I know I could push him away, step out of his arms knowing he’d be a perfect gentleman. But as he forces my head back so he can better see into my eyes, I know I’m where I want to be: under his hands and the influence of his amber-coloured gaze.
‘You have to trust me.’
It’s not a request, liquorice scented breath feathering across my face.
My palms against the hardness of his chest, I can feel his heart beating solidly beneath his skin. His eyes never waver as he reaches beneath the hem of my dress, pulling my now naked thighs hard against his. It’s a touch my body seems to recognise as I whimper or moan, I’m not sure which. The strangeness in Kai’s expression shifts, the storm receding, replaced by fire as he presses his mouth against mine. Hot and urgent kisses, I meet his intensity as hard fingers press into my flesh. Grasping my dress, he breaks contact for just a moment, pulling it over my waist and further up over my head.
My breath catches as he spins me by the shoulder, pushing my body flush with the cool surface of the door.
‘Mihtajik.’ At my ear, his voice is harsh and rasping. ‘I need you.’
My body trembles against the cold door, sensations and emotions combining, driving me higher, my needs meeting his. Kai’s forehead falls to my shoulder, feather light fingers drawing the straps of my bra down my arms.
‘And I think you need this.’ Lips and teeth trail across my shoulder. My knees weaken again and I moan loudly as he dips lower, drawing his body flush with mine once more. Hip to hip, he supports and pinions me as I quiver against the cold of the door.
