A Taste of Heaven (Billionaires' Secrets Book 3) (21 page)

“I’m happy to share.” Then she felt stupid for saying it. What kind of person wouldn’t share her water with someone after a plane crash in the desert? “Though I don’t suppose it will last long.”

They couldn’t get the door open. Too much sand against it. In the end, she offered to squeeze out through the small window in the cockpit. It had been removed deliberately, all the rivets unscrewed.

She eased herself through headfirst, like a baby emerging from the birth canal, and the heat outside took her breath away.

“Careful, the sand is burning hot.”

She wore little ankle boots, thank goodness, not her usual sandals, since she was traveling on business. A survey of the door showed only about a foot of sand piled against it, and she quickly kicked it away with her feet so Zadir could open the door from the inside. He filled the doorway as he emerged, squinting into the sun. “I think we should walk to the highest point and see if we can see anything at all. A city, an oil installation, a Bedouin caravan.”

“The highest point is probably the top of that dune over there.” It wasn’t far, and it was a good hundred feet up in the air and looked like an intimidating climb. “Though I didn’t see anything from the plane.”

“Me either, but I was hyperfocused on landing. We’ll go slow and conserve energy. No sense sweating out all our water.” They headed out across the burning sands. Unfortunately, it was the thick, deep type of sand, like a beach, and made for slow going. They climbed laboriously to the razor-edged peak of the highest dune, sliding backward and clawing their way in the burning sand until they straddled the top and looked around at the breathtaking view of…

2

A
bsolutely nothing. Amber dunes stretched for miles in every direction. Hardly a big surprise but still a hope-sapping disappointment.

They stood in silence for a minute, maybe two or three. “I feel like my life should be flashing before my eyes,” she said at last. “This isn’t good.”

His chest rose and fell as he let out a sigh. “I can’t argue with you.”

Sweat trickled down her back under her thin blouse. She could feel her already dark skin tanning in the sun. When she looked back toward the plane she was alarmed by how easily it blended in with the sun-glare-lit sand. “How would anyone even see us if they flew over?”

“We should do something to attract the eye. Do you have any bright clothes?”

She shook her head. “I usually wear black or white.”

“I suppose I do, too.”

She rubbed her mouth thoughtfully. “Maybe we should make a big shape, like a circle. A familiar outline that draws the eye and breaks up monotony. It’s something we do in architecture all the time.”

“You mean with our footprints.”

“With anything we can find.”

Zadir led the way as they trekked back to the plane. His T-shirt clung to his athletic muscles, and his damp hair accented his bold features. She cursed herself for noticing at a time like this. Maybe her brain was playing tricks on her. They could die out here and she was thinking about how hot he was?

Probably the human survival instinct. Hopefully, she’d prove civilized enough not to claw his clothes off in a desperate last-ditch attempt to continue the species.

He glanced back at her, then lifted a dark brow. “You’re smiling.”

“I think I’m going crazy.”

“Have some water.” They climbed back into the plane, where he offered her one of her own Evian bottles. “People are often found dead of thirst with water still in their canteens. Let’s not go down like that.”

She took a swig, surprised at how good it tasted. “We’re going to survive this.”

“Damn right we are.” He took a gulp from another bottle. “And show those bastards they can’t take down an Al Kilanjar.”

“Who do you think it is?”

He shook his head. “Our country hasn’t had a war with any of the neighbors in decades. Ubar’s been a sleepy throwback to another era while the countries around us have exploited their oil and prospered. My brothers and I plan to bring Ubar up to speed and there are some traditionalists who are cranky about reforms we plan to make, but I don’t think they’re angry enough to kill us. Traditionalists usually still have respect for the ruling family.”

“Perhaps it’s someone with an economic interest.” She wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

He stared at her for a moment. “Quite possibly. But that’s the least of my worries right now. Let’s go make a shape.”

They laid out anything they could find in the plane that wasn’t nailed down—magazines, toilet paper, pages from her notepad, seat cushions, curtains—and joined them together with a network of footprints, until they’d made the plane a target at the center of a circle about fifty feet across.

As they walked back to the plane she felt a weird sense of accomplishment, and a sudden breeze provided a rush of relief. Maybe they’d get out of this thing alive after all. “Damn, that wind feels good.”

But when she turned to look at Zadir, he was frowning. “Wind can be a friend or an enemy.”

“Why?”

“Sandstorms.” As they climbed up through the door, the gusts started to toss around the objects they’d laboriously placed. Soon magazine pages fluttered and toilet paper took flight. Then the first grains of sand stung her arms and legs.

“Quick, get inside.” Zadir helped her in and closed the door.

She looked out the window as sand blurred the view of more sand. “We’re really screwed now, aren’t we?”

“It’s merely a setback.” He rested his hand on her upper back, which provoked an instant physical response, tightening her nipples under her blouse and sending a shiver of awareness to her fingertips. She cursed her body and the mind she was obviously losing. He slid his hand lower, to her waist. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?”

“Come this way.”

3

H
e guided her along the tilting aisle. Inside the plane the air was cooler than outside, and the plush leather seats and expensive detailing of the private jet looked incongruously luxurious compared to their harsh surroundings.

“They may have taken all the food and water, but we have hundreds of towelettes.” He picked up a sachet from a full box, ripped it open, and shook out the damp white cloth inside. “Refreshment awaits you.”

She laughed. How could she not? “You’re good at looking on the bright side.”

“It’s probably my fault that we’ve been stranded here so I’d be happy to atone by cooling your skin.”

“I can do it myself, thanks.” She took a handful of towelettes, still smiling.

He was already stripping off his T-shirt, and she averted her eyes from the arrogant display of tanned muscle that was his back. Did he expect her to undress too? She decided to wipe off her arms, where a fine layer of sand made her skin look ashy. The cool sensation of the wipe—which was probably loaded with alcohol and very drying—was wonderful on her sticky, hot skin.

“Good, right? Would you mind doing my back? I can’t reach.” He demonstrated that the thickness of his own biceps made it impossible for him to reach the middle of his back.

She gulped. “Okay.” She opened a fresh towelette and drew it slowly down the hollow of his spine. Goodness. She had never done anything like this with a man she didn’t know intimately. And her longest relationship had been with a boyfriend who was ticklish and didn’t relish being touched unnecessarily.

When the towelette had absorbed the heat and salt from his skin, she unwrapped another one and started to wipe his right shoulder.

“What do you do, when you’re not stranded in the desert?”

“I’m an architect.”

“What kind of buildings do you design?” His muscles rippled slightly as he spoke. His body was beautifully proportioned, sturdy and masculine as a classical statue.

“Stark minimalism, I’m afraid.” Which was lucky, or she’d be tempted to commission a statue of Zadir Al Kilanjar for her garden.

“Don’t apologize. I’m a fan of minimalism myself. I almost bought a Kouichi Kimura house last year, but someone beat me to it.”

“No kidding?” She rubbed another towelette over his left shoulder. “Kimura’s houses are beautiful, but I mostly do larger buildings, offices, government buildings, that kind of thing.”

“You prefer to work on a grand scale.”

“I do. I try to take commissions that will still be there in a hundred years. Unless the money’s too good to pass up, of course.” She sighed. “That’s why I’m flying to Bahrain to meet with Mr. Al Makar.”

“You’re going to design Najib’s house?”

“I haven’t committed yet. If he’s going to give me free rein with design and budget, I’ll seriously consider it.”

“He’ll be a fantastic client. Though perhaps I shouldn’t tell you that. I need a residence for myself, and I suspect you would be the perfect designer.”

She paused in her stroking. “I really don’t do many houses.”

“This is more of a palace. As you already know, I inherited a third of my father’s kingdom, and in his wisdom he saw fit to give me the emptiest, most desolate tract. There’s not a single building on it, not even a shed.”

“A blank canvas.” She stroked again, trying to distract herself from thoughts of building a palace. Palaces lasted hundreds of years—if no one killed the monarch and destroyed it, of course.

“Yes, and you’d find me a very tractable client. I have no idea what I want except that it needs to fit the desert setting and have the smallest carbon footprint possible. You must give me your card.”

She laughed. “You sound like I’m about to get off this plane and walk away.”

His shoulders shook with laughter. “If only. What’s your last name?”

“Baxter, Veronica Baxter. Please call me Ronnie.”

“I’d love to pretend I’ve heard of you, but I’ll plead ignorance.”

“I’ll admit your plea. I won an American Institute of Architects award last year.”

“I’m impressed. And I need a palace.”

“At least you hope you do. We have to get out of here first.” She stroked the back of his neck, disturbing the strands of dark hair there. They’d both cooled down enough to stop sweating, but her core temperate kept rising due to proximity to this breathtakingly handsome man—who’d saved her life.

He reached around and took hold of her wrist gently but firmly. “We’re going to be fine. You do believe that, don’t you, Ronnie?”

She drew in an unsteady breath. “I think so.”

“They’ll send out a search party.” He still held her wrist. She thought that maybe she should try to tug it back, but she didn’t. “We’ll be drinking champagne by tomorrow afternoon, probably.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Stay here.” He rose, and again his brusque command made her raise a brow, but she took the opportunity to rub a cool cloth over her own neck and shoulders, under her blouse. Zadir retrieved their Evian bottles from the no doubt rapidly warming fridge and handed hers to her. She took a sip. “That tastes better than the most expensive champagne right now.”

He grinned, revealing that cute dimple. “I guess adversity makes you appreciate the important things.”

“Our plane would have landed by now.”

“A long time ago. It’s night.” He gestured to the window, where darkness eclipsed the swirling sand. The cabin still had small lights on along the floor and ceiling. Probably battery powered. “I’m sure people are wondering where we are.”

“I hope they are. Do you have a wife or girlfriend to worry about you?” She half hoped he did. That would make it easier for her to stop noticing every artistic curve of his physique.

“Nope.” He took a swig of Evian. “It’s times like this when I wish I did. Even my brothers won’t wonder where I am. They’re not expecting me back in Ubar for two days. How about you? Do you have someone to worry?”

She looked down at her bottle, then thumbed the smooth glass at the top. It was Friday night. “Except for your friend Najib, who’s pretty busy with his wedding, no one will even notice I’m missing until I don’t show up at my office on Monday. Even then, my assistant will probably assume I’m meeting with a client and forgot to tell her.”

“You don’t have any family?”

“Not really. No one that would miss me.” She didn’t remember ever feeling like she’d had a real family. She wouldn’t know how to make one if she tried.

“Don’t look sad. We’re going to be fine. I find it hard to believe you don’t have a husband or boyfriend.”

She cocked her chin. “I’m married to my work.”

“Oh.” A mischievous smile snuck across his mouth. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Why?” She lifted a brow.

“I’d like the architect for my palace to be utterly devoted to the project, of course.”

“I haven’t said I’ll design your palace.”

“Indeed you haven’t, but I can be very persuasive.”

“You haven’t even seen my work.”

“I feel confident that it’s stunning and memorable in every way.” The way he said the words, slowly and softly, with a deft appraisal of her face and body, made her feel as if he was talking about her. Worse yet, she liked it.