Читать книгу The Desert Prince's Proposal - Nicola Marsh - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

BRIA entered the restaurant a few minutes early, confident she’d be the first one there. However, the moment she stepped into the elaborate room with velvet banquettes, brushed-silver table lamps and polished mahogany, she saw Sam rise to his feet from a far table and weave his way through the room, his dark eyed gaze fixed solely on her.

She swallowed, unprepared for the rush of excitement, the little thrill of anticipation that this incredible-looking guy was dining with her. Women’s heads turned as he strode between the tables, not that she could blame them.

He’d changed out of his business suit into black trousers and an open-necked white shirt which accentuated his deep tan. Though his mannerisms and accent screamed British, she guessed he had a Mediterranean background, what with his dark good looks and unusual surname.

‘I’m so glad you joined me,’ he said as he reached her side, his appreciative stare sending warmth spiralling through her body. She stiffened, not used to the uncharacteristic physical reaction to a guy, especially one she wouldn’t see after tonight.

‘Thanks for asking me.’

His eyebrow flicked upward at her short, clipped response, and she inwardly sighed, knowing this was a bad idea.

So she felt slightly indebted to the guy for sharing his taxi with her—that didn’t mean she’d had to agree to his dinner invitation. She could’ve said a polite ‘thank you’ like the super-cautious woman she usually was and left it at that.

Instead, she’d dithered over her wardrobe choice for five minutes too long—exactly four minutes longer than she usually took—and had that weird, quivering sensation in her belly that dinner with an attractive man for the first time in ages might bring her more than she bargained for.

‘You seem a little tense. Are you tired?’

She shook her head, impressed by his perceptiveness, surprised by his consideration. Most guys wouldn’t have noticed she was tired.

‘Actually, I’m starving. The tiredness is par for the course with my business at the moment.’

He inclined his head, a strangely formal gesture that added to his appeal rather than diminishing it.

‘I understand. Please, let us eat so you can retire early.’

Stifling a smile at his formal way of speaking, she fell into step beside him, acutely aware of his hand resting in the small of her back, gently guiding her through the maze of tables.

Heat seeped through the silk of her dress and her skin prickled, utterly aware of his barely-there touch and reacting accordingly.

Thankfully, they reached their table in record time, and Bria slid into the seat he held out for her, wondering if this was all a smooth, elaborate act or if Sam was this polite all the time.

Not that it mattered. She’d never fallen for a slick charmer before—her ex Ellis had been reserved and a tad bumbling, which is why she’d let him into her life—and she had no intention of loosening up now, even if he did have the most amazing, soulful dark eyes.

She had to admit his eyes fascinated her: the darkest of chocolate brown, mysterious, mesmerising.

Eyes that held secrets.

Eyes possessing wisdom beyond their years.

Eyes hinting at a whole host of possibilities she couldn’t begin to fathom.

‘Is there something wrong?’

She jolted upright and hoped she hadn’t been drooling.

‘I’m sorry for staring. That was rude of me.’

And stupid—very, very stupid.

He smiled, and the slight upward turning of his lips softened his face, creating a tiny road-map of lines around those fascinating eyes.

‘On the contrary, I’ll take it as a compliment. To have a beautiful woman stare at a man is the highest form of flattery.’

‘Or insanity.’

The words popped out before she could stop them, but thankfully he laughed.

‘You are a very frank woman. I find that intriguing.’

‘It becomes irritating after a while. Or so I’ve been told.’

She picked up a menu and ducked behind it, feeling awkward and gauche and out of her depth with a guy of Sam’s class. Rather ironic, considering she’d attended the best of Swiss boarding schools and had mingled with politicians, moguls and the upper echelons of society her entire life.

Yet there was something about him, more than his fancy clothes, posh accent and formal speech patterns, some sort of inbred class that stood him head and shoulders above everyone else.

And that alone should have her running as far from the magnetic property-developer as she could get. Class and power were often inexorably linked, often used to control and manipulate and impress.

She should know.

‘Please do not be embarrassed. I value honesty, especially as we have so little time together. Let us share a meal, enjoy each other’s company and talk some more.’

The elaborate print of the menu faded before her eyes as the implication of his smooth words sunk in. The eating part she could do, the enjoyment part was up for debate. As for talking some more, what was so interesting about small talk with a virtual stranger?

Thankfully, the appearance of a waiter put paid to any further chit chat and she placed her order quickly, hoping the black-lip abalone steak tasted as good as it sounded. She usually adored good food, but had a sneaking suspicion that tonight everything would taste like chaff under Sam’s disconcerting gaze.

Once the waiter disappeared Sam leaned back in his chair, the simple action drawing his shirt across his chest, and she struggled not to stare at the sheer breadth of it. It was probably as tanned as the rest of him, if the tantalising V of flesh where the collar lay open at his throat was any indication.

‘I’m interested in hearing about your business. Can you tell me more about it?’

Bria smiled, inwardly chalking up another brownie point to Sam. Guys weren’t usually interested in hearing about her, especially her business. Some neanderthal had once told her he found women talking about business emasculating; needless to say she hadn’t lasted to the main course on that date.

Clasping her hands in her lap to stop from fiddling with the cutlery, she said, ‘I started up my architectural firm a while back. Motive is my pride and joy. Before that I attended the University of Sydney, completed my degree in architecture, was lucky enough to serve a year under one of Australia’s top designers, then branched out on my own.’

She omitted the part about endless arguments with her dad or the countless hours she’d spent trying to convince him she hadn’t needed the backing of Kurt Green, Australia’s answer to Bill Gates.

Though, there was a difference. Bill worked for his money whereas her arrogant, lazy father had never lifted a finger a day in his life, other than to point it at her and accuse her of being a failure once he’d realised she wouldn’t submit to his control.

‘That’s very impressive. You must have quite a reputation to be invited as guest speaker at a conference?’

If he only knew.

Sure she had a reputation, as a ballsy, driven workaholic who could turn a dump into a palace. She’d designed some of the biggest, most eye-catching projects in Australia, and had been catapulted to the top of the architectural heap so fast her head still spun.

However, being at the top came at a price, and the long, lonely hours between midnight and six a.m. weren’t so great no matter how many times she lay in bed reliving her business success in her head.

She shrugged, not surprised to find her fingers tugging at the edges of the tablecloth. She always fiddled when she was nervous or uncomfortable, and in the face of Sam’s obvious admiration she was definitely uncomfortable.

‘I’ve been lucky. I’ve designed some fairly well-known projects, and Motive is growing all the time. Not boasting, or anything, but it’s bordering on becoming quite famous in this country because of it.’

‘We make our own luck,’ he said, staring at her intently as the waiter returned, filled their glasses with pricey champagne and left as unobtrusively as he’d arrived.

Though she couldn’t fathom the curiosity in his eyes, she agreed one hundred percent about the luck thing.

She might have been born into the richest family in Australia, but she’d shunned that life when old enough to escape her father’s clutches, had made her own way in the world, built her own company, and was still her own woman.

Picking up her flute, she raised it in his direction. ‘To luck.’

‘To luck,’ he said, clinking glasses with her ever so softly, his warm, melted-treacle gaze in stark contrast to the icy bite of champagne bubbles sliding down her suddenly constricted throat.

With an extremely handsome guy staring at her with ill-concealed fascination, she felt extremely lucky indeed.

Bria kicked off her stilettos as soon as she entered her room and, padding across to the king-sized bed, flopped back onto the plump pillows.

She was exhausted.

Not a totally foreign feeling, considering she felt this way most nights after the gruelling hours she kept and the way she pushed herself at work, but tonight was different.

Her weariness had nothing to do with work—it had been the furthest thing from her mind for most of the evening—and had everything to do with the suave man who’d held her captivated for most of it.

Sam was something else.

From the top of his thick, black hair to the soles of his polished designer shoes, he’d held her enthralled. He’d said all the right things, done all the right things, and she’d found herself hanging on his every word towards the end of dinner.

Not that he’d said terribly much. Instead he’d steered the conversation away from himself and had focussed it solely on her. She would’ve normally found such secrecy troubling, and intense scrutiny unnerving, yet when he’d stared at her with that melt-me gaze she’d quite happily blabbed away until she’d stuffed food into her mouth to shut up.

When Sam had talked he’d had a distinct way of speaking, a polite, almost formal intonation that leant weight to his words, and she’d wished several times during the course of the evening that they could spend more time together. It had been a long while since any guy had captured her attention so thoroughly, and she wanted to know more.

Groaning, she closed her eyes and flung her arm across them.

Well, she’d got her wish.

Before they’d parted at the lifts in the foyer Sam had said what a lovely time he’d had, and he would really like to spend tomorrow with her before conducting his business and flying out of the country.

She should’ve said no.

She should’ve mumbled some excuse about preparing her speech for Sunday.

She should’ve turned frigid like she had when any guy had come near her since Ellis.

Instead, she’d smiled and blushed and nodded and made a complete fool of herself.

What was she thinking?

‘You weren’t,’ she mumbled, wondering if she could plead a headache tomorrow morning, knowing that would be the wimp’s way out.

Since when had she ever done wimpy?

Determined to ignore the niggle of misgiving that she’d just made an impulsive decision with her heart rather than her head, she logged on to her emails, eager to bury herself in business and forget her fascination with Sam and their impending date.

Scanning through the usual requests for quotes, her gaze focussed on one bearing the heading ‘Welcome to Adhara’. Her best friend Eloise had been whisked away to live in the tiny desert country since her marriage to royalty, and had been begging her to visit ever since.

However, this email wasn’t another of Lou’s badgering missives. Instead, it had come from Ned Wilson, her biggest client in Australia—the media mogul who had a thing for Middle Eastern architecture, and who’d been hounding her every step to turn his Sydney-harbour mansion into a replica of something out of Arabian Nights.

Her finger slipped off the laptop’s mouse as she read the email. Ned wanted his mansion to be authentic, had discovered the only mosaics he’d consider having in his home, and had booked her a trip to Adhara.

Shaking her head in disbelief, she reread the email. It wasn’t a request, it was an order, and considering Ned Wilson could make or break careers—and had done so quite publicly in the past—it looked like she had little choice.

She hated any guy thinking he could control her, yet, with the promise of Ned’s renovated mansion sending her reputation through the glass ceiling, she’d swallow her pride for once and do what he wanted. Architecture was predominantly male-oriented and she battled for recognition with every job.

Taking a few calming breaths before she fired off a response, Bria checked out the information Ned had attached to the email. Though she hated his high-handedness in organising this trip without asking, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by the sweeping desert sands, the white-washed buildings and the quaint market places.

She’d always been fascinated by exotic places and their architecture, and it looked like she was about to get an up-close-and-personal view of Adhara whether she wanted it or not.

Sighing, she fired off a second email, to Lou this time, informing her of the upcoming visit. Her friend would be ecstatic, though considering the business nature of the trip she seriously doubted they’d have much time for doing what they loved best: lounging around, sharing gossip and packets of chocolate Tim-Tams.

All in all, this trip wouldn’t be too bad. Ned could’ve sent her to the outer reaches of the Sahara on a whim, rather than a country where she knew someone, and once she completed his house her reputation as an architect would soar.

Nothing like positive publicity to build a career, she thought, and, feeling more upbeat than she had a few minutes ago, Bria logged off and padded into the bathroom, her mind filled with images of endless stretches of desert—quickly replaced by a man with mesmerising dark eyes.