‘That’s unfair.’
‘You think so? You wish to deny the past, perhaps?’
She met the accusation in his eyes and she wanted to tell him to stop doing this. To stop it right now before he did irreparable harm to what they had. She wanted to rewind the clock back to yesterday morning, when his words had been tender, not harsh. ‘You know why I pole danced,’ she said quietly. ‘I was drunk and I was running away from an impossible situation. You know that.’
His black eyes continued to bore into her. ‘So what are you running away from this time, Rosa?’
She could feel the hammering of her heart as she clutched at the sheet. ‘I’m not running from anything,’ she said. ‘I’m just trying to find out what talents I have. I want to grab every opportunity which comes my way, because I’m aware that the clock on this marriage is ticking away. And that when we part, I want to know who the real Rosa Corretti is and what she’s capable of.’ She stared at him in appeal, wanting him to understand. Praying that he would understand.
He picked up a file of papers. ‘Then I must wish you well,’ he said.
His words were dismissive and Rosa could feel her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands as he headed out of the room without even bothering to kiss her goodbye. Damn him and his prissy attitude, she raged silently as she heard the front door slam behind him.
Defiantly, she showered and dressed—and although she always felt at her thinnest in black, she remembered reading somewhere that you should never wear black in front of the camera. So she put on a green silk dress which brought out the emerald flecks in her eyes, and after a couple of cups of strong coffee she rang Arnaud Bertrand.
‘Madame de la Désert,’ he said slowly. ‘This is a surprise.’
Rosa sucked in a deep breath, wondering if his offer had just been something meaningless which he’d tossed out during a lull in the dinner party conversation. ‘Did you mean it when you suggested the screen test?’
There was a pause. ‘But of course I meant it,’ he said smoothly. ‘I never say anything I don’t mean. Can you come in for a test this afternoon?’
She thought afterwards that if he’d scheduled the test for the following week, then she might never have taken it. Maybe that was why he did it so quickly. All Rosa knew was that later that day she had the car drop her off at the TV studio, which was situated on the Avenue de la Grande Armée. The building overlooked the Arc de Triomphe and Arnaud told her that the iconic backdrop was often hired out to visiting foreign broadcasters.
‘You don’t seem too nervous,’ he observed as he ran his eyes over her silky green dress.
Rosa gave an automatic smile. My husband doesn’t want me to be here, she found herself wanting to say. I keep thinking about him, instead of the reason I’m here—and that’s the reason why I’m not nervous. But she forced herself to push the memory of Kulal’s face from her mind and to flash a bright smile at the TV executive instead. ‘Surely nerves in front of the camera are a bad thing?’
‘They certainly are.’ Arnaud smiled back as he led her into the studio, where the lights were belting out a heat as fierce as a tropical sun. ‘How good are you at ad-libbing?’
Rosa shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
They stood her in front of a giant green screen and explained that the weather report was one of the few things on television which didn’t require an autocue. They told her that Paris was going to have sunny spells throughout the day, but that there would be scattered showers overnight. And then they asked her to talk about it on camera for thirty seconds, without a script.
She was a natural. Or at least, that’s what they said afterwards, when she’d finished her slot. Just as the last few seconds were ticking away, she had turned to the camera and said, ‘Sometimes I wish I was back in Sicily, where the sun always shines.’ She’d heard shouts of laughter in her earpiece, and when Arnaud came to collect her from the studio floor, he’d been grinning—as if he’d just done something very clever.
He took her for coffee afterwards and told her that he’d been entirely correct and she did have that certain je ne sais quoi which made the camera love her. That it was a rare commodity but television gold. They couldn’t offer her much at the moment, but they thought she’d be perfect for a daily ‘novelty slot,’ just after the lunchtime news.
She received the news with the enthusiasm she knew was expected of her, but when she left the café to slide into the back of the waiting limousine, all she could think of was how she was going to break it to Kulal. And wasn’t that crazy? Because this was the chance of a lifetime—and wasn’t this marriage supposed to be about freedom?
She had to start taking control. She was legally contracted to be Kulal’s wife for another ten months and she certainly couldn’t spend it moping around the place, wishing he felt stuff for her which he clearly didn’t. If she didn’t like something, then she needed to change it. And if she couldn’t change him, then she needed to change herself. Couldn’t she show her sheikh husband that it was possible to live in harmony, if they both made the effort? That they could compromise if they wanted to, just like any other modern couple.
She felt filled with a new sense of purpose as she took the elevator up to the apartment, and when Kulal arrived home she was waiting for him out on the terrace. She had mixed a drink of his favourite rosewater and pomegranate juice and his eyebrows rose speculatively as she held up the frosted pink jug. ‘Drink?’
‘A drink would be perfect,’ he said, pulling off his jacket as he went out onto the terrace and joined her. He had thought that he would arrive home to an atmosphere, that she might be sulking in response to his obvious disapproval of her intention to ring Bertrand. But it seemed he had been wrong, for he’d never seen her looking quite so relaxed.
Sinking into one of the chairs, he watched as she bent to drop ice into the glass, his gaze resting on the curve of her bottom, and his heart began to accelerate as she handed him the drink. She was wearing her hair loose, just the way he liked it, and her flame-coloured dress accentuated her exotic colouring. Not only did she look good, but she was behaving in a way which pleased him since her attitude towards him was undeniably accommodating. Did this mean that she had reconsidered her rash statements of this morning? His gaze was approving as he took a sip of his drink and let out a rare sigh of contentment. ‘I must applaud you, Rosa,’ he said. ‘For this is exactly how a man likes to be greeted after a hard day at the office.’
She waited until he’d put his drink down before she walked over and sat on his lap, looping her arms around his neck. ‘And have you had a good day?’
‘When you wriggle on my lap like that, it makes me forget—other than to say that it’s getting better by the minute.’
She dipped her head forward and brushed her mouth over his. ‘Is it?’ she whispered.
He didn’t answer, just put his hand up to anchor her head so that he could kiss her, and Rosa felt the shimmering of desire as if whispered over her skin. Her hands reached out to frame his face, her fingertips tracing the hard outline of his jaw and feeling the faint rasp of new growth there. Her fingers crept upwards, so that they could feel the hard slant of his cheekbones beneath the silken skin. And all during her tactile survey of his face, he continued to subject her to that sweetly drugging kiss so she was startled when, abruptly, he terminated it, pushing her away by a fraction so that he could look directly into her eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ she managed through dry lips. ‘D-don’t you want to make love?’
‘You mean here?’
She wondered how best to respond. Up until now, Kulal had been the dominant one—not surprising given his vast experience and her complete lack of it. But she’d had a pretty intensive introduction to sex, hadn’t she? Surely she’d had enough tuition for her to take the lead for once. Maybe that was what he wanted her to do.
‘Of course here,’ she whispered as she drifted her hand down to his groin, where he felt as hard as steel, and began to strok
e him through the straining material of his trousers. ‘I want you now. I can lift up my skirt and you can just slip inside me. No one need know a thing.’
The explicitness of her words excited yet shocked him and Kulal recognised a subtle shift in power between them as his body responded instantly to her touch. For a moment he allowed himself the fantasy of following through. Of allowing her floaty dress to conceal what was going on underneath. Of unzipping himself and pushing deep inside her honeyed heat. Gripping her wrist to arrest the movement of her captivating fingers, he put his face very close to hers. ‘You don’t think we can be seen?’
Rosa swallowed. ‘This terrace is completely private.’
‘Nowhere is completely private. There are long-range lenses and buildings all around which offer perfect vantage points.’ His black eyes shot out black fire which blazed over her. ‘Unless you are turned on by the thought that someone might be watching? Perhaps deep down you are longing for the kind of notoriety which would come from being the first woman to be photographed having sex with the sheikh?’
She stared at him, her heart beginning to pound painfully in her chest as she heard his unjust and harsh accusation. ‘Is that what you think?’ she whispered. ‘Is that what you really think?’
‘I don’t know what to think. You are a constant series of surprises to me, Rosa—surprises which are becoming more apparent by the day. I had no idea, for example, that you were a frustrated television star.’
Shaking her head with indignation, she jumped off his lap and ran back inside the apartment but she quickly realised that he was following her. She could see his huge shadow dwarfing her and could hear him pressing a button so that the blinds floated silently down, leeching the room of all brightness and colour. She turned, seeing the look on his face.
‘Don’t,’ she said, her heart quickening.
‘Don’t what?’ he questioned. ‘Don’t continue what you started outside, only without the possibility of some paparazzi salivating over his camera? I thought that was what you were angling for, Rosa.’
The prospect of sex when he was looking as aroused as that made Rosa’s body tremble for his touch, but pride made her shake her head with a sudden fury. ‘Don’t keep treating me like some mindless puppet who can’t think for herself,’ she said fiercely.
Her unexpected words made him halt in his tracks and he deliberately made his voice grow silky. ‘But I’m just acting in your best interests. Surely you can see that it was unwise for us to be intimate outside, with the possibility that we could be seen by the paparazzi?’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ she said impatiently. ‘But there are more diplomatic ways to tell me than by making me sound like some little tart who is seeking a crude kind of notoriety.’
There was a pause for a moment as he considered her words, his eyes travelling over her hurt and angry face before, slowly, he nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
For a moment she thought she’d imagined it. She stared at him in disbelief. Had Kulal actually said sorry? ‘You are?’ she questioned cautiously.
‘Of course I am.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘You’ve just given me what is probably the best homecoming I’ve ever had and all I’ve done is throw it back in your face.’
For a moment Rosa was too overcome to respond. Because Kulal had used an emotive word which could mean so much, especially to someone like him. Homecoming. Coming from a man whose own home life had been shattered by the death of his mother—wasn’t that the greatest compliment he had ever paid her?
‘It’s okay,’ she managed, but she was shaking with emotion all the same.
‘I can be an ungrateful bastard at times,’ he admitted as he stepped forward and took her in his arms. ‘I guess part of me was still worried that you’d gone ahead and allowed yourself to take Bertrand’s ridiculous suggestion seriously.’
Rosa stilled as the truth dawned on her. He thought she’d changed her mind. That she’d opted for the docile role of compliant wife—the role he obviously expected of her. That she was doing what he wanted her to do. She bit her lip. So what did she tell him? She could play safe by phoning Arnaud in the morning and telling him she’d changed her mind, thus guaranteeing harmony in her marriage. But at what cost? Was she going to have to subjugate everything about herself which didn’t please this demanding sheikh? And for what? For him to turn around and leave her when the year was up, no matter what she did.
‘You think it was a ridiculous suggestion?’ she said carefully.
His lips gave the flicker of a smile. ‘I’m afraid it was. I know what these people are like, Rosa. He wants to make sure that I give him permission to film in Zahrastan, which is why he chose to flatter you. People often try to target powerful men through their wives. Though if he was a little more discerning, he might have realised that his behaviour has angered me and that I dislike men fawning over you in such a way.’
For a moment Rosa was so outraged that she couldn’t speak, even though his attitude was one she was used to. One she’d grown up with … He was making her sound like a racehorse, or a fancy car which another man was attempting to joyride. How dare he speak of her in such dismissive tones? She stared up at him, trying to stop her voice from trembling as she spoke. ‘You think that’s the only reason he showed interest in me—to get close to you?’
‘Not the only reason, no. Any man with a pulse would want to get close to you in an altogether different way.’
Rosa nodded. ‘So you wouldn’t approve of me taking a screen test to appear on French TV?’
He gave a cynical smile. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’d better get your head around the fact that I’ve done exactly that.’
His eyes narrowed as she wrenched herself out of his arms. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s quite simple, Kulal. I went into the studios this afternoon and they gave me a try-out. They said I was very telegenic and so they’ve given me a slot.’
‘They’ve given you a slot?’ he repeated dangerously. ‘On national television?’
‘The very same. Only a tiny slot—it’s true. But at least that means it won’t be too disruptive to our lives.’ She stared into the steely gleam of his black eyes. ‘And next week I start presenting the weather report on the lunchtime news.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE INTENSE LIGHT felt hot on her cheeks, but Rosa didn’t mind. The brightness of the studio made some of the other presenters grow overheated, but not her. She was used to the glaring blaze of the Sicilian sun, so a few television lights weren’t going to make her sweat! She flashed a wide smile as she finished her segment, reminding viewers to remember to pack an umbrella ‘if you don’t want your nice Parisian clothes to get wet!’
As always, her final comment made the crew smile, just as it would make the nation smile. In the instantly accessible world of television, Rosa had become a bit of a star, which was something she’d never envisaged.
Her rise to prominence in the national consciousness had all happened so quickly—and her popularity had been picked up by the press, during a quiet summer when there wasn’t very much news. Newspaper analysts had been quick to question ‘Why Rosa?’ because she wasn’t an obvious choice to be a pin-up. France had a recognised template for beauty, and Rosa didn’t fit it. She was curvy and she didn’t wear black. Her clothes were the colours of an exotic bird’s plumage and she wore flowers in her hair. She should have been invisible in a place where thinness reigned supreme and women worshiped at the altar of high fashion. But people liked her. Men liked her because she was the stuff of forbidden fantasy, and their wives liked her because they didn’t perceive her as a threat. French department stores had reported an increased demand for colour-blocked clothes. A glossy magazine had even urged its readers to throw away their diet books and ‘channel your inner Rosa.’
Then had come the discovery that before her marriage to one of the world’s most powerful men, Rosa had been a Corretti—and all hell had
broken loose. Suddenly, she had become even more sought-after. The studio bosses asked her to do an extra weather slot on the highly prestigious breakfast show, but she’d said no, because who in their right mind would want to get up at three in the morning? Even farmers slept for longer than that! Requests for interviews began to pour in but she told Arnaud to refuse them all. She knew her family would go ballistic if journalists started to pry into its chequered history. And she knew that any more exposure would make Kulal even angrier than he already was… .
‘Just why are you doing this, Rosa?’ he had demanded one morning, just before he’d stormed off to his office. ‘Pursuing a useless career as a weather announcer? Telling people what they can already read on their cellphones!’
Those had been his actual words—words which had been intended to wound and which had hit their target full-on. Rosa had swallowed down the hurt she’d felt. If only he had given her a few crumbs of praise, then she might have refused the offer of the Friday teatime slot in addition to her regular lunchtime one. If he’d told her that her French accent was flawless—which was what everyone else said—or that she’d managed to make women who felt bad about their bodies feel better about themselves, then she might have cut back or even deferred her fledgling career until after the marriage had ended.
But Kulal wasn’t in the business of praising. He was in the business of making her feel like she had overstepped the mark. As if she had no right to do anything with her life if it dared to interfere with his.
She arrived home late one Friday after a meeting with Arnaud, and when she rushed into the apartment Kulal was standing waiting for her. His gaze ran over her, his black eyes lingering on the rose in her hair, and she saw the almost imperceptible twist of his lips. The fresh flower had become her ‘trademark’ and was provided by the studio before every show, but she’d forgotten she was wearing it and it was now probably wilting.
‘You’re late,’ he observed caustically. ‘And your face is covered in make-up.’
A Whisper of Disgrace Page 12
