The Sheikh's Forbidden Jewel

Part 8-Chapter 7

The hours ticked by, and felt like centuries. At last, he managed to extricate himself from his guests and moved towards the blonde woman in the black dress who magnetised his entire being. Her work at Lobiera was coming to an end. But he had unfinished business with her.

"Splendid party, mon cher!"

The director of the Louvre museum was blocking his path, waving a canapé in his face.

"I love those little marzipan dormice. Nice touch!"

Idriss felt himself split in two. The rational part of him welcomed this golden opportunity to discuss whether France's number one museum would consider lending some of its exhibits to the new venture. And the other part screamed in silent frustration, every nerve tensed in the direction of Georgina. The rational department reminded him that he'd never let a woman distract him from business, or his mission, before. He made himself turn his back on her.

By the time he'd finished his conversation, Georgina had vanished.

His stomach flipped. This time he didn't stop to wonder why. His head only had room for one thought: find her. Fast.

Then he heard her rich, throaty laugh. His body turned towards the sexy sound of its own accord. What he saw froze his blood. Georgina was leaning against one of the tall windows, half-shielded by the heavy velvet curtain. And, standing close – far too close – to her, bending his elegant head, the French Culture minister was murmuring – what? An amusing anecdote, a compliment, an invitation to Paris, or worse? She looked up into her admirer's eyes, and a hundred invisible daggers stabbed Idriss through the heart. A primal instinct took over and bore him towards the pair.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your tete-a-tete."

He could barely hear his own words through the blood pounding in his ears. He laid a hand on Georgina's bare shoulder. Staking his claim. She turned her eyes on him, with an expression he couldn't decipher. Then her red lips arranged themselves in a coquettish moue.

"You will have to excuse me," she said to Monsieur de la Riviere, with a fluttering of eyelashes. "My client is so possessive."

The Frenchman bowed. He looked amused. Idriss's fingers itched to grab the man by the lapels of his made-to-measure suit and shake the smirk out of his lecherous face.

"And so he should be!" said Monsieur de la Riviere. "I too would keep you close, my dear."

He turned to Idriss.

"I look forward to visiting your museum very soon, Monsieur Al-Makudi."

The sensible part of Idriss's mind at last made itself heard through the chaos raging inside his head. He thanked the minister, in a calm, collected voice, shook his hand, promised to be in touch. And then he led Georgina through the throng, towards the back of the hall.

Where was he going? He didn't know. He only knew that if another man as much as looked at her, he would no longer be responsible for his actions. So he pushed the first door he saw and found himself in a little salon, the one with just enough room for a green sofa and a gilded table.

Georgina wrenched herself from his grasp.

"What do you think you're doing?"

He wished he knew. The door closing behind them had sent his rational brain packing. He stared at her, powerless to resist the torrent of emotion that engulfed him. Her chest rose and fell in a staccato rhythm. Her voice shook with an irritation she made no effort to suppress.

"I'm not your servant, Sheikh al-Makudi."

The "Sheikh" cracked like a whip in the silent, perfumed space. He didn't reply. She glowed like a jewel in the dim little room, and he drank her in, the bright fire of her hair, her parted lips, her maddening curves under the wispy silk. Her hands opened and closed at her sides, as if she didn't know whether to punch or slap him.