The Sheikh's Forbidden Jewel

Part 8-Chapter 7

A wall of sensation hit Idriss.

Every cell in his body cried out for her, as if the past two decades had evaporated, compressed in one incandescent moment of lust. His lips explored hers, caressing every contour. His tongue touched the edge of her mouth, licked, slipped inside. She tasted even better than he'd imagined. He circled her neck with his hand, pulled her to him. The world beyond the painted screens, the world that wasn't her, vanished.

Until she lay both hands on his chest and shoved him off.

"I've got to go," she said, and scurried away from him, back to the safety of the fake Roman forum.

Idriss almost punched the table in frustration. Women never pushed him away. Women never ran from him. He stalked out of the beauty space, but a volley of flashbulbs stopped him dead in his tracks before he could reach Georgina. The press had arrived, his distinguished guests were streaming through the doors. Georgina threw him one troubled glance, and busied herself welcoming the arrivals.

He'd lost her. The knowledge he wouldn't get anywhere near her, not for the next four hours, burnt a hole in his gut.

"Quelle belle femme," said a familiar, posh voice next to him.

Idriss wheeled round. The French Culture Minister held out his hand.

"So nice to see you again, Monsieur Al-Makudi. I can see this is going to be a splendid party."

He was looking Georgina up and down as he spoke, his distinguished face lit up with appreciation. Idriss swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat.

"I am delighted you were able to come and support my new museum, Monsieur de la Riviere," he lied.

The minister inclined his head, but his eyes remained glued to Georgina, who was working the room like the pro she was. He winked.

"Congratulations. You are a lucky man."

His words hit Idriss like a punch to the gut. Had the Frenchman seen them kiss? Or was he making his assumption because of the way Idriss had run after Georgina, the way he was looking at her? Zarba, had he been that obvious?

"You are mistaken, Monsieur," he said. "Georgina Beaufort is a party planner. I hired her to organise this event."

The minister raised an eyebrow.

"So you are not an item?"

His obvious delight unleashed a surge of anger in Idriss's chest. De la Riviere didn't appear to notice, too busy gazing at Georgina's golden hair, bright as a flag among the crowd.

"One of our greatest writers said that English women are either plain or stunning. I don't need to say which category your planner falls into. I have a few parties of my own to organise, in Paris. I'm sure she would do an excellent job."

Idriss shook off the unwelcome image of Georgina squired around the City of Lights by the silver-haired fox. The sooner he could conclude the evening's business, the sooner he could take her out of here. He nodded, from one man of the world to another.

"Parties are not my area. Antiquities are."

The Frenchman put down his champagne flute on a passing tray.

"Let's talk work, then. Tell me more about this new museum you are creating."

Idriss switched to business mode with relief. But all the time he talked and shook hands, his awareness of Georgina grew. His body seemed to always know where she was; he could sense every one of her movements, even from the other end of the room. Her perfume lingered in the beauty corner, which was proving a hit with the female guests, and a few males as well. Her laughter popped above the hubbub of voices. Her silhouette stood out in the sea of cocktail frocks and tuxedos, drawing his eye wherever he went.