The Scandal Behind the Wedding. Bella Frances
into a broad, long corridor gleaming with the light from a thousand chandeliers and reflecting miles of pale polished marble. A small gold sign showed two choices—five suites to the left and five suites to the right. She chose left. There was silence now, apart from the light click of her heels.
In a shower of golden light a balcony opened up on her right, overhanging the atrium drop to the outrageous fountain which flowed with unadulterated affluence. The corridor swept ahead, its smooth wall curling out of sight. She clicked round, the echoes following the curve. Finally there were two doors to the left. Equally imperious. She walked right up to one. Another small golden sign: Jumeirah Suite.
This was it.
She reached her hand forward and braced herself for an hour of air-kissing and a super-bright smile.
The door swung open.
Georgia stared blankly from the very large man in western clothes who had opened it to the scene within. Riches, opulence, glamour. People—men and beautiful women. Her feet continued their self-directed path and went right in.
The place was huge. Which was no surprise, really—seven-star hotels would have seven-star suites—with more riches per square inch than Aladdin’s Cave. Still, even after six months in Dubai she was completely unprepared for what she saw.
Twin marble staircases descended with a swirl to a sunken lounge furnished with white leather sofas, overdressed with gold and china-blue satin cushions. On the mezzanines at either side were more seating areas, one with a bar and one with diner-style booths—all pale blue studded leather and filmy white and gold drapes. The wall behind the staircases was made entirely of glass—easily sixty feet of it—and behind that sat the magnificent Persian Gulf, its blue hues melding with the lilacs and oranges of the early evening sun.
But she’d seen a sunset or ten, stepped out on more than her fair share of marble, and lounged on lots of butter-soft leather. So it wasn’t the opulence that was immediately arresting. It was the rest of it that was so striking. Singles? Couples. Reclining on low white leather sofas, drinks in hand, and looking very, very relaxed. Even through the air-con there was a heady sense of hedonism. Strange for a singles’ party—even here.
She looked around for other girls like her, but every girl was occupied—very occupied—with a man.
Georgia’s eyes warred with her brain and her mouth with her feet to figure out which was going to take action first. A woman climbed one of the stairs towards her. Silky black hair and almond-black eyes. Red mouth and red one-shoulder silk dress cut to the thigh. It made her Alaïa feel more like a nun’s habit.
‘Hi—I’m not sure if I’m in the right place. I was told just to show up. This is a singles party, right?’
The stunning woman ignored her. Flicked her a derisory head-to-toe glance, arched the most perfect brow, quirked the most perfect lip and walked right on by. She paused at a bar area, trailed a scarlet nail down the cheek of a corpulent businessman. He placed his hand on her backside and squeezed. Georgia watched, transfixed, as the woman arched her back and allowed him to touch her breast.
She was not the type of woman who sang nursery rhymes to four-year-olds or who had bruises from junior football. These were not homespun girls looking for Mr Right. Oh, no. These women were sophisticated, sexy, and setting out their stalls.
Georgia looked around again for something—anything—to anchor herself to. But the whole scene was just plain weird. How could everyone be hooked up already? Okay, she’d never been to a singles party before, but she’d heard enough stories about speed-dating to figure that not everyone would be coupled up at … what? … seven-thirty p.m. In fact, when she looked a little closer, some couples were actually threes. Uh-oh.
She felt as if she was standing on the deck of a sinking ship and sharks were circling closer. If this was dipping her toe into the dating waters she’d keep herself on the warm, dry land of singlehood, thank you.
Yes, this was definitely a mistake. She’d go back to the complex. She’d have the place all to herself since everyone else would already be on a flight to Ras al Khaimah. She’d soak in the plunge pool. She’d watch TV and text Kirsty to tell her that this was her worst ever piece of dating advice.
Maybe she would see if there were any more companies hiring junior coaches. She still had a couple of week nights free to pick up work, after all. The kids would give her a reason to smile, and any extra cash would be a bonus for Babs. Really—that was what she should be focussing everything on.
It was kind of the girls to suggest she start dating again, but even though she was well over Nick she was well short of the money she wanted to send Babs. Sixty thousand in legal fees and loans was going to take ages to pay—even in tax-free Dubai.
She turned around, ready to leave, more determined than ever to get out of this crazy party. The door opened again. Noise and lots of it—the boozy boys. A crack of command to silence them … dark, disquieting tones … and then cobalt eyes fastened straight onto hers.
She watched as they all piled in. His gang—because there was no doubt that he was the leader—all had their eyes on stilts, as if it was Christmas morning and the gifts were all for them. He stood at the door, letting them go, eyes only on her.
She stalled. She wavered. He waited. And watched. And then he took the decision right out of her hands and walked up to her. Not too fast, not too lazily, but sure and solid—no room for debate.
A slash of white suddenly lit his face, changing it from intense to exceptional as the brightness of his eyes was matched by the brilliance of his smile. He was breathtaking—it almost hurt her eyes to look at him. And to think she’d once thought Nick hot and handsome! This man aced every man-measuring yardstick. He was up close now, and she tipped her head back slightly to look at him. He had that reassuring height that made her feel feminine. A chest broad enough to lay her head on and melt into. Strength and stature … looks and presence. If there were man trophies his shelves would be covered in them.
‘Hi. Good to meet you … again.’
She watched stupidly as he lifted her puppet-like arm and brought her hand to his mouth. His lips were warm with an edge of soft stubble. She felt her eyes widen as he pressed them against her skin and struggled even more to keep up. He lowered her hand, pulled her a little closer and curved his lips into the sexiest smile she’d ever seen. The promise of long, slow and sensual loving was right there in the quirk of his lips. Terrifying.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Georgia.’ She breathed out her name and allowed him to keep her hand in his for a moment, still locked into that stare.
‘Georgia. Beautiful name,’ he said.
Was blue the colour of sin? She thought so—it was laced through his eyes.
‘Danny Ryan.’
‘Hi,’ she said back, finding her voice and a bit of composure.
She shook the hand that he had wrapped in his own and wondered where on earth her default defence mechanisms were. This man was super-league in every sense. Meaning that her run-for-your-life hormones should be pumping, instead of her gooey-girl hormones.
Come on, get back in the game—bath, bed and beyond is where you’re headed. Then a trawl for another job. The last thing you need is to get caught up in something like this with someone like him.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Danny. But I’m afraid I seem to have wound up at the wrong …’ She looked around, wondering how you would actually describe this. ‘I think I’m totally at the wrong party.’
He let her fingers slip away when she tugged her hand free, but held her with that presence, or force-field, or whatever it was.
‘Well, that’s a pity, because I was hoping to get the chance to properly apologise for what happened earlier. The boys have been working flat-out—they’ve had a couple of drinks and are being a bit loose with