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Desmond paused as his stomach constricted into a knot. He grabbed her wrist to get her attention, and she turned to face him.
“I hate parties,” he said, and smiled down at her. The corners of her mouth flickered up in return.
“Ask Hind not to mention you by name or post anything with your face in full shot. People do it all the time. It’ll be okay.”
She didn’t look convinced, but at least she nodded.
“Now, come on. The least you can do is enjoy your own party, honey.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? You’re warm. You’re sweet. And, sometimes, yes, you’re quite sticky—”
“Desmond!”
“I’m only a man, and you’ve left me with some absolutely delightful memories.”
She let out a mortified snort, but her eyes had brightened. He sighed in relief.
Bullet dodged, at least for now. And the absurdity of this party would do much to remind him that this was all fake.
And that the fact that he was in love with Valentina—he couldn’t think of her as Val again—could not matter. He mentally ran through the list of justifications he’d been turning over in his mind for days.
He was a mess.
Valentina was finally escaping one horrible relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her to get into another, especially when he had so little to offer.
* * *
Sheikh Rashid had spared no expense on this event; the older man loved to host, and every moment had been carefully curated to ensure that his guests had the best possible time. A string orchestra with harps, tinkling bells and traditional strings played in the palace’s lush gardens. There was the main hall where dancers, jugglers and illusionists wandered through groups of people, entertaining as they went, and small hidden corners for guests that wanted more private conversation, and a women-only hall for some of the more conservative female guests to meet, gossip and adjust their scarves to show off the magnificent dresses they wore underneath.
Instead of a big sit-down dinner, tables set for eating were scattered throughout the ground floor so attendees could load their plates and cluster round their friends and family members. It felt, all in all, like a real wedding. The sheikh blustered through an overlong but good-natured, fatherly speech and released his guests to an evening of entertainment.
Desmond shook hands until his own felt quite numb. He kept an eye on Valentina the whole time. She was as serene as always, beautiful in her gown, and gracious toward everyone who greeted her. She did not protest when he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and instead leaned into him, her warm body relaxing against his body as it had done so many times before.
Mine.
It wasn’t true though, was it? Not by a long shot. And yet, this, tonight, felt very real. He squeezed her waist—he loved the way her body curved, the valley of softness and warmth that was there—and felt the stirrings of arousal. He grasped for a line of conversation that would distract him.
“How does it feel to be the center of attention?” Desmond said.
“Awful,” Val said, and he was surprised to see that she was very near tears. He put his arms around her, turning ever so slightly to shield her as much as he could. He began to sway gently to the music of the harp, and pressed his cheek close to hers.
“You look so beautiful,” he said. It was honestly the first thing that came to his mind.
“Desmond!” her eyebrows came together.
He laughed, but the sound had no humor behind it. “Perhaps we should go somewhere quieter so we can talk?”
Val stared at him disbelievingly for a minute, then picked up her skirts and strode off as quickly as they would allow. It wasn’t easy finding a place; it seemed that the party had grown fuller by the moment. Val finally shooed away a teenage couple who were canoodling in a palm tree–festooned corner and they scuttled away like rabbits. She turned on Desmond.
“Well?”
“You’re free. Officially. Your debts have been paid.”
Val’s hand flew to cover her mouth; her eyes were wide and dark. “That’s impossible.”
“No, it’s not. I facilitated it myself a few days ago.”