Nichelle hid her surprise. Why was this man reading her mind?
She crossed her legs, and the shoes in question lifted with the stretch of her leg, headed between the sprawl of his thighs. Wolfe only watched her with an amused smile, not trying to protect himself as she teasingly stretched out her deadly heel toward his crotch. He trusted her, the bastard. With a roll of her eyes, she dropped the threatening leg.
Wolfe laughed, then leaned forward briefly to tap her silk-covered knee. “You can kill me later.”
He turned his attention back to the scene passing the window, a smile lingering around his mouth. He had no problem relaxing, his body swaying gently against the leather seats from the movement of the car. Nichelle couldn’t help but notice that the pale material of his suit was the perfect foil for his cedar skin. Her fingers itched to touch him. She sat on them and tried harder not to stare.
Only when the driver opened the door nearly half an hour later at a mansion miles from the city center did she realize she hadn’t thought about the “competition” once after Wolfe told her to relax. But he probably hadn’t meant to distract her from her foolish thoughts quite that way.
The mansion was truly, truly opulent. All gorgeous curves and mosaics, straight out of the dreams of One Hundred and One Arabian Nights. It was a tall, three-story structure, more desert palace than everyday mansion, with ribbons of lights bordering the driveway. There were three other limousines farther up in the drive, empty and with the drivers standing nearby smoking cigarettes and speaking quietly to each other in Arabic.
“Bonsoir, madame. Monsieur.”
Wolfe got out first and stepped back, offering his hand to help Nichelle out of the car. She shivered when his big hand closed around hers, strong and warm. Okay. This attraction of hers was stupid and had to stop. How many times had he held her hand? How many times had he helped her out of cars and she hadn’t reacted this way? She suddenly hated Paris with a burning passion.
Nichelle thanked him for his chivalry anyway.
A uniformed man approached them. “This way.”
Wolfe offered his arm to Nichelle, and she curved her own through it after a brief hesitation. She squared her shoulders, ready to face whatever the night would throw at them. They followed their escort through a long foyer toward soft conversation, the music of sitars and haunting Moroccan drums.
The party was in full swing. The man ushered them through high doors, into the thick of the party, a room scented with rose water, the sound of at least five languages rising and falling in conversation and weaving with the music that wasn’t loud enough to be overwhelming. Their escort took them directly to a robed man holding court before an international group of business people.
He was short—shorter than Wolfe at any rate—and handsome with his sand-colored skin, closely clipped beard with flecks of gray, and flowing white robes.
“Monsieur Quraishi. Your guests.”
The man, Monsieur Quraishi, excused himself from the circle of attentive men and women with a quick nod. “Monsieur and Madame Diallo. Welcome.” His voice was a deep, booming bass, the perfect accompaniment to his gentle and paternal smile. “At last I can put a face to the memos and emails.” As if he hadn’t thoroughly researched them through every means available, social media included. “Your wife is even more beautiful in person.” Quraishi’s look was appreciative but respectful, his gaze lingering briefly on Nichelle’s shoes. She sensed Wolfe’s amusement.
“Even though I claim no responsibility for that fact,” Wolfe said with a glance of admiration at Nichelle. “I am glad to reap the benefits.”
If she didn’t know any better, she swore he was flirting with her. He was either being a shameless opportunist or a very good actor.
“I’ve trained you well, Mr. Diallo,” she teased him back.
Nichelle was very aware of the ring on her left hand, even though it was the right hand that Jamal al Din Quraishi lifted to kiss. He greeted Wolfe with a firm handshake and an appraising look that his genial smile could not mask.
“It’s rare to meet a couple who work so well together,” Quraishi said.
“The secret, if you call it that, is we keep our personal lives away from the office,” Wolfe said, all smiling teeth and handsome sincerity. “Because of that, not many people even know we’re married.”
Nichelle forced herself not to frown his way. If that was the story they were going with, why did he even suggest they buy rings? As if Wolfe sensed her thoughts, he lightly touched her hand, a calming stroke of her ring finger. She did quiet her thoughts, but made a mental note to ask him about it later.
“Very smart.” Quraishi squeezed Wolfe’s shoulder with a conspiratorial wink. “Come, let me introduce you two to some of the competition and to some colleagues of mine.”
Nichelle and Wolfe exchanged a look as they walked ahead of Quraishi. Some of the competition? It wasn’t just Sterling Solutions they had to worry about?
It turned out that there were two other firms in the ring. Quraishi introduced Nichelle and Wolfe to the group of men he’d been talking with, including the head of a Canadian firm whose work they were already familiar with. Nichelle immediately dismissed them as any real competition, but shook hands with a respectful smile. It wasn’t long before the other men and women wandered off with the excuse of finding drinks, leaving her and Wolfe with Quraishi.
“Thank you for your excellent hospitality,” Wolfe said to him. “The accommodations are exceptional.”
“Yes, you’re already taking excellent care of us,” Nichelle said with a smile. “We were pleasantly surprised.”
“So the desert hospitality is not as harsh as you envisioned?” The sharp-toothed smile challenged her, but there was humor there, as well.
Nichelle amped up her smile and added a soft laugh for good measure. “We had no expectations, monsieur. But I haven’t been so well cared for in years.” She could feel herself floundering and willed her tongue not to stumble. “Your country is exceptional.”
At her side, she could feel Wolfe’s silent laughter. He was the politician of the partnership. Better at smoothing ruffled feathers and making people feel at ease. She almost sighed in relief when he came to her rescue.
“The hotel is quite luxurious, even by our standards,” Wolfe said. “My wife is very pleased with our first visit to your country.”
My wife. Nichelle shivered at the intimacy the words conveyed.
Quraishi reined in his smile, made it warmer and less challenging. “In that case, thank you. Your comfort is my pleasure. Anything you want here is yours.” He made a wide gesture to the ballroom and the mansion around them.
“Yes, thank you.” Nichelle glanced around again.
Just then, she saw Isaac and his companion from the hotel, a man she’d never seen before. They made a beeline for Quraishi.
Wolfe dipped his head, mouth brushing against Nichelle’s ear. “I think that’s our cue to mingle,” he murmured low enough for only her to hear.
“Of course, darling.” She nodded to their host. “Thank you again for your hospitality, Monsieur Quraishi. We look forward to talking with you more later on this evening.”
Wolfe guided her to the bar, where they ordered glasses of orange juice mixed with sparkling water. “So how do you want to handle this?” he asked once they had their drinks. They stood with their backs to the wall, appraising the room.
“Let’s mingle,” Nichelle said. “See what we can find out about the so-called competition.”
“Sounds like a plan, General.” He touched his glass briefly to hers, his firm mouth curved into an intimate smile at odds with his words. “Good hunting.”
When they separated, at least a dozen pairs of feminine eyes followed Wolfe as he made his way toward one of the men they’d been introduced to earlier, the Frenchman. His strong and graceful stride, the swagger in his hips, drew an almost indecent amount of sexual attention, Nichelle’s included. Before Paris, she’d never given a
ny, or at least not much, thought to how women always flocked to him. But now the amount of interest he attracted made her grit her teeth. If they were really married, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle it.
Nichelle took a breath and made her way into the fray.
After nearly an hour of mingling, Nichelle’s attention began to stray. It took more to keep up the social face, but she smiled and asked questions, shared information, made small talk with the best of them.
“So your firm is based in Miami.” A gorgeous man with lambent brown eyes and a subtle Arabic accent nodded in her direction. “It must be difficult to keep your attention focused on work when there is so much beauty to distract you.” His eyes dipped over her body, more than implying she was part of that irresistible landscape he mentioned.
“Pardon me, ladies. Gentlemen.” Wolfe appeared out of the crowd to touch Nichelle’s shoulder. He aimed a narrow-eyed stare at the man with her. “I’d like to claim Madame Nichelle for this dance.” His jacket was unbuttoned, and a crooked smile shaped his mouth. She wanted to stroke the firm line of his lower lip in welcome.
He tugged her to his side. “Is that okay with you?”
She grinned at his mischievous smile. “Of course. You can sweep me away anytime.”
He led her to the dance floor.
“Are you doing all right? You looked like it was time for a break. Especially from your new admirer.” Wolfe growled in mock jealousy, and she rolled her eyes.
One hand pressed into the small of her back, and the other claimed her hand in a modified waltz to the sitar music.
“Not from him so much, but yeah.” She blew out a breath, relieved that he knew her so well but also annoyed that she had allowed her exhaustion to show. Although she loved her work and the business of making people bow to her will, there were some days that she only had so much to give before she needed to replenish her internal reserves. And today, playing married, being tense in a room full of strangers and potential enemies, had her mind working overtime.
She was strategizing and planning, modifying her approach to the presentation she and Wolfe were slated to give the next day. She was nearly exhausted. But with Wolfe’s arms around her, she felt the beginnings of a burst of energy. She tossed her head back to look at him.
“They had me on the ropes,” she said.
“Never say that. Whatever happened to ‘float like a butterfly and sting like a bee’?”
“This Ali is tired.”
Wolfe drew her closer, turned her in the steps of the dance. “We’re almost done.”
But the tiredness was rapidly draining away. Electricity crackled at the contact points between their flesh. She was slightly breathless, but had the growing feeling she could go for hours. She slipped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his chest.
“I’m feeling better by the minute, husband.”
His hands tightened briefly around her waist, and soft breath that felt like a quiet gasp huffed at her temple. A humming sound rumbled in his chest.
Despite her better judgment, she’d switched from orange juice to vodka tonics. Wolfe’s presence and her irrational jealousy of the women following him around were leading her toward a tiny internal meltdown. Even with that, she couldn’t deny the comfort and peace of his arms. That, at least, hadn’t changed. The majority of the crowd—which was mostly Muslim, she assumed—wasn’t drinking. Most of the Westerners made unending trips to the open bar, although she’d limited herself to two drinks over the past hour. In Wolfe’s arms, she caught the slightly sweet scent on his breath. Whiskey. He had switched to alcohol, too.
The music pulsed, and she allowed it to take her away. She melted into Wolfe’s strong arms. His legs brushed against hers, and butterfly wings of awareness fluttered in her stomach.
“Good,” Wolfe murmured into her hair. “I can’t do this without my better half.”
If they’d both been completely sober, they probably wouldn’t joke this freely about their “marriage.” But in that moment, it felt like a harmless ruse, something to take comfort in rather than run away from.
“You’re right about that,” she replied.
Wolfe laughed, spun her into a twirl then drew her back into his arms. He was even more relaxed than usual. Seeing him like this made her realize just how tense he had been. It felt good. Too good.
“See any women here you want to take back to the room and introduce to your little friend?”
He gave her a teasing glance. “Little?”
She laughed. “Relative to the size of the rest of you then.”
He chuckled, slipping both arms around her waist and maneuvering her into a more modern dance, hips moving to the sensual beat of the drums. She’d forgotten how well he could move.
“Anyway, I only have eyes for one woman tonight,” he murmured.
Her heart thumped in her chest. “Liar.”
“Never to you.” The faint scent of his exertion brushed her nose. Sweat. His cologne. Whiskey on his breath. He jerked his head toward a voluptuous woman standing almost in the center of a group of nearly salivating men. “That’s the woman over there. She’s too beautiful to ignore, don’t you think?”
She pinched the taut skin at the bottom of his jaw.
“Ouch!” He laughed and gathered her in his arms again. “I’m just joking. I’m being very careful who I pay attention to this evening.” His voice was low and intimate, soft as he spoke into her throat in English. “I feel as if Quraishi is watching us.”
“Of course he is.” She couldn’t stop the ache of disappointment that it was the job, his diligence about keeping up the appearances of their pretense, that made him pay this much attention to her.
Something must have leaked through her voice because he held her closer. “Not to mention you are the most beautiful woman in the room. Where else would I be but by your side?”
She shook her head, quietly laughing at herself and at him. “Dial it down a notch, Casanova. I don’t think I’m that needy tonight.” But wasn’t she? Nichelle moved closer to him, wound her arms around his neck and linked her fingers. She briefly felt the contours of the wedding rings beneath her fingertips before her hands settled at the back of his neck. His skin was warm seduction. His breath touched her mouth.
They moved slowly against each other, her hips following his hips, rocking to the sensual music, a slow winding that poured the honey of desire steadily into her veins until she was overcome by sweetness. She wanted to kiss him.
“You keep looking at me like that, and I’m going to forget all about this pretense.” His eyes flickered down to her mouth, and she licked her lips. He hungrily followed the motion with his gaze, and she drew a sharp breath at the jolt of heat in her belly.
Oh no, no, no.
She drew another sharp breath. “I think...” Nichelle licked her lips and tried again. “I think I’m going to get some fresh air.” Then she carefully drew back from him, her aching and needy body, her arms, her fingers, her tangled thoughts. She turned and left. Nichelle fumbled her way through the crowd that seemed intent on keeping her in the small room and shoving her back toward Wolfe. But maybe all of that was in her mind. Maybe.
She found her way out to a balcony overlooking the courtyard. A mazelike garden made from fruit-heavy orange trees, purple and white bougainvillea, a large tiled fountain in its center. The night was scented and warm, its darkness heavy around her shoulders, broken only by the gentle illumination from the pair of floor lamps on each side of the wide balcony.
Nichelle drew deep breaths until her thoughts calmed. But her brain still fuzzed at the edges from the alcohol she’d had earlier. She wasn’t a drinker, never had a high tolerance for alcohol. In fact, she only normally needed one drink. Drink number two was begging for trouble. And now, she found herself firmly in trouble. And in lust.
She twisted the rings on her finger.
“Are you well?”
The question, asked softly in French, made
her jerk in surprise. She turned to face the source of the inquiry, although she could tell by the voice who it was.
“Monsieur Quraishi.” She greeted him with a deliberately unconcerned smile. “Yes, I am doing fine. Thank you for asking.” She curled her hands around the stone of the balcony, taking comfort in the firm and slick marble under her palms. “It’s beautiful out here. I wanted to share it with my husband. He loves the architecture of the city.”
Her host moved to her side with a whisper of his robes. He searched her face as if he was looking for something in particular, his deep-set eyes steady and astute. “Yes, Moorish design is some of the best in the world. There is nothing else like it on earth. It is beauty personified.” His bearded mouth twitched, daring her to disagree.
But Nichelle wasn’t anyone’s yes-man. “Wolfe might agree with you on that.”
“You do not?”
She weighed her answer carefully, hoping her intellect would override the alcohol that had nearly made her throw herself at Wolfe on the dance floor. “I do find it beautiful, yes. There is nothing else like it.”
He chuckled. “Truthful while being diplomatic. I like that.”
On the inside, Nichelle flinched. The guilt at their deception twisted unpleasantly in her chest. Maybe this hadn’t been one of her best ideas.
Footsteps tapped toward them. “Monsieur Quraishi.”
The man who’d escorted her and Wolfe into the party appeared around the corner. Isaac Franklin closely followed him.
“Yes?”
“A word, sir?”
Quraishi dipped his head toward Nichelle. “If you’d excuse me, Madame.”
“Of course.”
As he walked away, she noticed Isaac watching her with hawkish eyes. Suspicion and a barely leashed anger burned in his gaze. She kept her expression neutral and did not look away from him. Eventually, Quraishi’s presence forced him to turn away.
Affair of Pleasure Page 7
