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“When the flight was lost, shares plunged. It was an ugly story. My uncles were fighting among each other, throwing around accusations of blame… in the end, they sold all their shares to me, wanting to wash their hands of it. And now here I am. Carrying that legacy.”
“And you— haven’t seen them since then?”
Desmond shook his head. “They blamed my father, you see,” he said. “That made it…impossible for me to stay with them.”
There was no sound in the room other than the rain drumming on the skylights above. Desmond rubbed a hand over the top of his head, looking wearier than she’d seen him before, and so different from the cool, sardonic bachelor she’d met only yesterday.
We’re all hiding something, she thought.
Some just buried it deeper than others. And in this moment, she felt his loneliness. Earlier that day, at the memorial, she’d recognized self-blame—both were emotions she herself felt on a daily basis.
Right now, she was feeling so many things: admiration for all he’d accomplished and for his ambition, sorrow at the fact that he’d been so alone in that church just a couple of hours ago and now, incredibly close to him in a way she hadn’t expected.
Desmond’s voice had grown hoarse; he seemed to be transfixed by the portrait of his father and uncles. His jaw was so rigid that Val wanted to reach up and caress it into relaxation.
To comfort him.
“Europe is completely shot for us as a market. People won’t forget a tragedy that resulted in the loss of so many people. But the Gulf is still open, and young enough to throw money at us, and—” He stopped and cleared his throat.
“I have to do this,” he finished. “For him. For my father. I can’t let his legacy die, Val. I simply can’t. Not when—” His eyes were dark pools that glimmered in the candlelight. Val waited breathlessly for him to finish what he was going to say, but he turned away from her with visible effort. “Come on. Our food’s getting cold.”
They sat down again, companionably close this time, and ate from the same dish, their fingers brushing occasionally. They didn’t speak until the food was nearly gone.
“I suppose,” he said, with the first hint of humor she’d heard in his voice since they’d raced to the church for the memorial, “we should get to know each other, since we are supposed to be married.” He was clearly forcing levity back into the conversation, and the smirk on his face told her he was being playful. She decided, for his sake, not to push things, and instead matched his lighter tone.
“I’ve been trying not to think about it!”
“You should see your face,” he jeered. There was laughter in his voice, and she was glad for it. “Well. What are the most important things?”
“Family, religion, allergies…?”
“You’ve met them—” he gestured at the wall “—Orthodox, and mushrooms. Yourself?”
“Well, you’ve heard my story about my family. We’re Baptist, although I haven’t entered a church since my wedding. No allergies except cats.”
She paused, wanting desperately to segue into something less…serious. “I suppose we could talk about Sheikh Rashid again. And your deal.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Do you have to argue about everything?” she said crossly. “I said I would. Now, listen.”
He covered his mouth rather dramatically, and she rolled her eyes.
“Nostalgia,” she said.
Confusion crossed Desmond’s face. Val crossed her arms over her chest; her breasts were aching beneath the fabric that covered them. She forced herself to focus on Desmond.
“Bahr Al-Dahab,” she continued. “It means—”
“Sea of gold.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “It’s very glamorous, the concept of a nation built of a single material. Liquid gold, as it were. Your competitors have worn that idea out. But Sheikh Rashid, he loves history above all else. Bahr Al-Dahab is his beating heart, even more so than the king.”
Desmond’s eyes were darker than they’d been earlier, if that were possible. “Tell me more.”
“Ask him about the history of Bahr Al-Dahab and he’ll be delighted to tell you the story.”
“Why don’t you tell me?” Desmond countered, and his mouth curved up slightly. “You have the loveliest voice, you know.”