by Abby Green
London sparkled under the moon. Vibrant and glamorous. It had always been her favourite city. But the desert... That was where her heart lay.
She was so wrapped up in her thoughts she didn’t hear Sharif join her, but she felt him when her pulse inexplicably picked up.
‘Penny for them?’
She looked at him, so tall and vital and handsome in his tuxedo. She shrugged and looked back out over the view. ‘I was just thinking of cities...and the desert. I miss it. I think it’s where I feel most at home, even though it can be such an inhospitable place.’
Sharif placed his hands on the terrace wall. ‘You miss your horse and your bird?’
She nodded. ‘I feel free in the desert. Totally at peace.’
He turned and leant against the terrace wall, facing her. ‘When my father sent those mercenaries to kidnap me I blamed the desert for a long time. As if it had somehow betrayed me by not protecting me.’ He grimaced. ‘Obviously I know better, but that’s how the desert is for me—like a living organism.’ His mouth quirked. ‘I’ve since forgiven it.’
Liyah said, ‘It’s so vibrant and full of life, but it can turn on you in an instant. I got caught in a sandstorm once—scariest experience of my life.’
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Liyah said, ‘I know you said you took on your father’s business because it was your due, and your brothers’, and because you wanted to make something of it, but I can’t imagine it was easy to take over from a man you hated so much.’
‘It wasn’t,’ Sharif admitted. ‘I despised it at first. Because I despised him and anything he touched. I thought his business was a vacuous world, full of vain people. I thought it had no value. Until I had access to the accounts and saw the spreadsheets. At first it was very much a means to an end for me—rebuilding it. But over time, as I got to know more, I came to appreciate the industry. I think there’s a place for enduring brands in the world. And for fashion and art. We provide something aspirational. Inspirational. And I think we can do a lot of good in changing things for the better. In terms of the environment. Inclusivity. Diversity. Art and design and creativity is what civilises us. If that disappears, or becomes eroded, we lose something very valuable.’
Liyah stayed silent, willing Sharif to continue.
‘We had an intern in one of our offices from South Africa. He grew up in poverty in the townships. His mother cleaned in the big rich houses and she used to bring home copies of Vogue. For a young gay boy, who literally had nothing else, those magazines were a portal to another world, where he could fantasise about being someone else.’
Sharif looked at Liyah, and pride was visible on his face.
‘He won Men’s Designer of the Year at the fashion awards a few months ago.’
Liyah smiled. ‘I love that story.’
People started clapping and cheering inside.
‘We’re missing the announcement,’ she said. ‘We should go back in.’
But Sharif caught her hand and stopped her, pulling her towards him until they were touching. ‘I prefer it out here.’
‘Do you, now?’
‘Yes... I do.
He took off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders, before tugging on it so that she came even closer. Surrounded by his smell and his body heat, Liyah cast aside all her concerns and gave herself up to the moment.
Because she knew that when the time came all she would have to remember would be moments like this.
Later that night—much later—when they returned to the apartment, to Sharif’s bedroom, Liyah wasn’t prepared for the urgency that gripped her as soon as Sharif put his hands on her face and tipped it up so he could kiss her.
She realised she’d been waiting for this moment all evening.
She was ravenous.
She scrabbled to undo his clothes as his hands moved over her body, undoing her dress, taking it off her. His kisses stole her sanity. She pulled back, dizzy, to see Sharif shed his clothes. A button popped. Liyah felt like giggling, but it was drowned out by the rush of blood to her head when she saw Sharif’s magnificent body bared.
He was like a warrior. And she wanted to honour him.
She dropped to her knees in front of him and heard his surprised huff of air. ‘Liyah, what are you—’
But she couldn’t resist that straining column of flesh. She wanted to taste him. The very essence of him. She wrapped her hand around him and heard him suck in a breath, whistling through his teeth.
He put his hands on her head, his fingers clamping tight as she inexpertly explored the thick, rigid flesh, running her tongue around the head before putting her mouth around him fully.
Sharif’s legs were shaking...his hands trembling. He didn’t recognise himself right now, having gone from civilised to carnal beast in about zero to ten seconds. It had taken all his restraint not to leave the party early, drag Liyah back to the apartment like some hormonal schoolboy.
He’d actually fantasised about her doing this, and now he was straining with the effort it took to keep his hips still.
Eventually it became too much. As much as he wanted to find oblivion in Liyah’s far too tempting mouth, he wanted to be buried deep inside her more. And that was a revelation he refused to look at now—usually this form of release suited him just fine, feeling like a lesser form of intimacy.
He pulled back and Liyah looked up at him, her eyes unfocused. Her hair was wild and tumbling over her shoulders, almost obscuring her breasts.
Sharif couldn’t even speak. He just pulled her up and lifted her, carrying her over to the bed before laying her down. He felt off-centre and, despite the clawing need to plunge deep and find satisfaction right now, he forced himself to go slow, to prove that he hadn’t lost it completely.
Liyah was still dizzy from the headiness of what she’d just done, from how it had felt and tasted to have him in her mouth. At her mercy. She’d felt the tension in his hips, the way his hands had trembled in her hair. But now he seemed intent on proving that any notion she might have that she had the upper hand was sadly misplaced.
He came between her legs and pushed them apart, moving his big hands up to her thighs, spreading them even wider as he bent down, pressing kisses along the tender inner skin, his breath feathering closer and closer to the centre of her body, where her flesh pulsed.
And then he put his mouth on her flesh. She arched her back and grabbed the sheet with both hands, straining to contain the pleasure building at her core. But it was impossible. One flick of his wicked tongue and she was tumbling over the edge, and her body was still contracting when he reared over her and plunged deep, sending her into another spiral of ecstasy, showing her all too comprehensively who was the expert.
Liyah lay there for a long moment afterwards, her skin cooling and her breathing returning to normal. She was shell-shocked all over again at how this was between them. But surely it would begin to fade? This intense need and desire?
She heard Sharif’s breathing return to normal beside her. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
And then he surprised her by saying abruptly, ‘Actually, Callaghan isn’t entirely wrong. I do have plans for the Marchetti Group. My plan is to destroy it.’
Callaghan. The reporter who had followed them to London. Liyah turned on her side to face him, shocked. ‘What?’
Sharif didn’t look at her. ‘I’m going to reduce the Marchetti Group to nothing. That’s what I’ve been working towards. Building it up until it’s powerful beyond anything my father could ever have imagined and then selling it off, piece by piece, until his legacy no longer exists. All the success he garnered off the backs of the women he seduced and stole from will be forgotten.’
Liyah went very still. ‘But...but all that stuff you told me earlier about appreciating the industry...’
‘This
won’t affect the industry at large. It’ll cause a few waves, yes, but the brands will continue to exist. Just not under the Marchetti name.’
‘But what if they don’t survive without your support?’ Liyah thought of the women who worked in the atelier in Paris.
‘That’s part of my reasoning in making sure we’re in a strong position. All the brands and labels will be desirable lucrative concerns.’
Liyah came up on one elbow. ‘What about your brothers? They don’t know about your plans, do they?’
Sharif threw back the covers and got up from the bed in a fluid movement. He walked over to a set of drawers and pulled out a pair of sweat pants, put them on. They hung low on his hips as he walked over to the window, arms folded.
Liyah sat up, pulling her knees up to her chest. Feeling cold all of a sudden.
Eventually he said, ‘No, they don’t know.’
‘Because you don’t trust them?’
He turned around. ‘In a word, no. Even if we do have an accord now, I can’t say for certain that they wouldn’t go against me—and I can’t let that happen. Not when I’m so close. They hated our father as much as I did. Nikos’s mother committed suicide because of him. Domenico made Maks’s and his sister’s life hell when their mother had affairs and ultimately divorced him. I still can’t trust that they feel the same way I do, but they won’t go without recompense. They’ll be billionaires, no matter what.’
‘You could talk to them,’ Liyah suggested. ‘Perhaps not telling them everything but sounding them out? They deserve that, don’t they?’
She could see the lines of Sharif’s body tense.
‘They’d suspect in a second. They’re not stupid.’
Liyah pulled up the sheet, feeling exposed. ‘I think that you’re underestimating them. I think you can trust them. Didn’t they come into the group when you suggested it after your father died? They’ve helped you build it up.’
‘They’ve helped you build it up.’
Sharif was so tightly wound that he felt as if he might crack open. Everything Liyah was saying was hitting him in a place that stung. And he had no idea what had compelled him to tell her any of this. It had started coming out of him before he could stop it.
The truth was that on some level he knew she was right. But he’d been alone for so long, living with his plan to grind his father’s name and legacy to dust, that the prospect of it not happening was unconscionable. Too much of a risk.
As if reading his mind, Liyah said softly, ‘Would you risk putting a rift between you and your brothers for this?’
‘Yes,’ he answered, swiftly and emphatically. Except this time it felt hollow.
He’d always figured a rift between him and his brothers would be the unfortunate outcome, but in the past couple of years he and Nikos and Maks had gravitated more and more towards one another. It was easier between them now. He felt...affection.
But he slammed down on all that now. Sentimental nonsense. This whole plan would only succeed with the element of surprise. No one could know.
Liyah got out of the bed, naked. She grabbed Sharif’s shirt from where it lay on the floor, slipping into it. It fell to her thighs. Her hair was tousled and she looked thoroughly bedded.
She held the edges of the shirt together. ‘I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. Goodnight, Sharif.’
Sharif watched as Liyah left the room, an acrid feeling in his gut. For so long in his life he’d been certain that what he was doing was the right thing. The thing that would finally bring him a sense of vengeance meted out. And then peace.
And yet now all he could see were Liyah’s huge eyes, looking at him reproachfully. He could hear her soft voice... I think you can trust them.
He turned around to face the window again and cursed. She was making him lose his focus. Damn her. Damn her for not being the wife he’d envisaged—unobtrusive and on the sidelines. Far from that, she was in his bed, under his skin, and every time he looked at her she made his mind go blank with lust.
Damn her for making him want to spill his guts.
And damn her for suddenly making him doubt everything.
Not even a hot shower could warm Liyah up. She wrapped herself in a towelling robe and curled up on the sofa in her bedroom. The extent of Sharif’s ambition to avenge his mother and destroy his father even at the risk of alienating his brothers should have shocked her, but it didn’t. After all, he’d been prepared to marry a total stranger purely to gain any advantage he could in the run-up to realising his ambition.
She felt cold at the thought of Sharif bearing this heavy, toxic burden for so long. And then she thought if she felt cold, how must he feel? He’d been alone for a lot longer than her. Trusting no one.
Obeying an instinct she couldn’t ignore, Liyah went back to Sharif’s room. He wasn’t in bed. And then she heard running water. He was in the shower.
She undid the robe and let it fall to the ground and opened the door. Sharif was standing with his hands on the wall, his head down between his shoulders. There was something so...isolated about his stance that Liyah’s heart cracked for him.
She went into the shower and inserted herself between him and the wall. He tensed at first, and those dark eyes with gold around the edges stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she was there.
She put her hands on his chest and rose up on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his mouth, which was in a hard, flat line. At first he didn’t respond. She thought he was going to reject her. But then, as if a dam had burst, Sharif put his arms around her and lifted her up.
She put her legs around him and he leant her back against the wall, running his hand over her breasts, cupping one heavy weight before bending his head to suckle on her eager flesh.
He thrust up into her body, stealing her breath and her soul. It was slow, deliberate torture, as if he was making her pay for extracting a confession he hadn’t wanted to make.
Liyah absorbed it all, and afterwards she wrapped her legs around him even tighter, felt him shudder his release into her body.
Manhattan
Sharif sat in the back of his car and pulled out his mobile phone. He texted Liyah.
I’m on my way home.
Then he stopped, deleted ‘home’ with a scowl and replaced it.
...to the apartment.
The woman was turning his brain to mush. Since that night in London, almost three weeks ago, they hadn’t discussed the subject of his plans again. When Liyah had appeared that night in his shower he’d been consumed with so many tangled emotions that he’d almost told her to leave him alone, but then she’d put her hands on him and he’d lost the will to tell her to go.
It was as if she’d sensed what he needed and taken all of him, absorbing his need to exorcise what was inside him.
The following morning, when he’d woken, he’d felt as close to a sense of peace as he’d ever experienced before in his life.
His phone pinged with a response.
Good for you.
He smiled.
It will be good for me. And for you.
After a couple of seconds:
Promises, promises...
And an eye-roll emoji.
Sharif’s blood leapt. He’d make her pay for that. He put his phone away, the smile still on his face.
The past three weeks had been...interesting. He’d had a few events to attend, accompanied by Liyah, and he’d found that as she’d grown more comfortable in his milieu she’d become quite happy to talk to people and not depend on him. If anything, he was the one looking for her now, and he didn’t like how used he’d got to having her by his side.
He’d found her in a corner the other evening, talking to a septugenarian professor in Arabic about Taraq.
And one day, at the end of the working day—for normal people—she’d appeared in his
office with tickets that she’d bought for a sold-out Broadway show. At first he’d been inclined to refuse, aware that he had enough work to keep him there for hours. But Liyah had looked so crestfallen that he hadn’t had the heart to say no.
Sharif couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone to a show that hadn’t been a premiere, or part of a gala night. It had been revelatory...how such a regular thing could be so enjoyable. Although in truth he’d got more enjoyment out of watching Liyah enjoy the show. Wearing those glasses that made her look like a sexy academic.
And now he was going home—early, for him—because all day he hadn’t been able to get the image of how she’d looked that morning out of his head. Sleepy and sexy. Hair in a wild tangle around her head.
She’d not slept in her own room since they’d returned from London. She shared his room. Which he’d never done with any woman. But he found that he liked seeing her things strewn around the space. Her creams and lotions in the bathroom. Her scent in the air...
He scowled again. He was definitely losing it. The sooner her allure started to fade—as he was sure it would—the better. It was coming closer and closer to the time when he would make the announcement about selling off the Marchetti Group, and he was aware that he was using Liyah as a distraction to avoid thinking about his brothers.
The car pulled up outside the apartment building and Sharif felt his anticipation build as he got nearer to the apartment door. This was also a novelty. Having someone waiting for him. Welcoming him. He’d always been so careful to keep women out of his private space before.
But not Liyah.
As soon as he walked through the door smells assailed him. Smells of Al-Murja. The desert.
He shucked off his jacket and loosened his tie. Explored the apartment, following the smells to the kitchen. He was prepared to see his chef—but it wasn’t his chef. It was Liyah. She was wearing jeans and a loose shirt. Bare feet. Hair up in a loose knot.
She was listening to jazz, humming to herself. And the smell of the food made Sharif’s mouth water. He smelled spices and lemon. Chicken... Lamb?
