his eye as Jordan turned the page of the document on the aircraft’s table in front of him. He stared at the sight of the familiar ring on his finger. How long had it been since that day he and Lynette Dixon had decided they were getting married?
Six years.
And in the madness of that moment they’d walked into a local jewellery shop along the coast and bought their wedding rings—a man who owned his own gold-mining company, for God’s sake. He still didn’t know how she’d managed it. How she’d manipulated him into it. The way his mother had manipulated and deceived his father his entire life.
He turned to the night-dark window where the aircraft’s flashing red light swept rhythmically over the engine, but it was Lynette’s picture-perfect face he saw reflected there.
He’d met the blonde bombshell at uni and fallen for her with the speed—and devastation—of an avalanche down a ski-slope. Jordan Blackstone, who could charm any girl he set his sights on with a virtual crook of his little finger, had become the charmed. At twenty-six, when he’d been old enough and wise enough to know better, he’d lost his brains, his willpower, his self-respect. And his heart.
Because on the morning they’d arranged to elope to Las Vegas, he’d learned he’d been played for the fool he was.
He twisted the ring that suddenly felt thick and heavy and confining. Yes, he should have known better. Hadn’t he lived through a prime example of what not to do? He’d seen the power his mother had wielded over his father, and all because Fraser Blackstone had loved Ina without reservation. All his life Fraser had been a slave to that love. Blind to his wife’s treachery—or he’d chosen to ignore it. Either way, it just went to prove that love made you weak.
Which was why he’d kept the ring. A reminder of his foolishness. A reminder that, without due care, women could be a costly distraction. A reminder of his vow never to allow it to happen again.
He would be no woman’s slave. His will would prevail. When he wanted a woman to share his bed, he would do the choosing, not the other way round. And that woman might touch his body—in any way she pleased—but no woman would touch his heart.
At sunrise the aircraft touched down in Dubai. The desert air was dry and cool after the plane’s stale air conditioning as they walked out of the terminal.
Chloe breathed deeply. Aside from the odour of aviation fuel, everything smelled foreign and exciting.
‘Ready to go, Mrs Blackstone?’ Jordan said beside her.
‘Ready, Mr Blackstone.’
A uniformed driver was waiting to take them to the city and opened the limo door. ‘Ahlan wa Sahlan.’ Welcome.
‘Ahlan bik.’ Jordan waited while Chloe settled herself, then slid in beside her. ‘Get ready to be amazed,’ he said.
‘Okay.’ He sounded little-boy excited and she glanced at him, saw the enthusiasm reflected in his eyes. ‘Are we talking about something in particular?’
He smiled but didn’t enlighten her. ‘Wait and see.’
So she immersed herself in the scenery, from the low sand dunes that came up to the edge of the road in some places to the sky’s palette of pink and tangerine against unique silver-glinting architecture spiralling into the stratosphere. They travelled over the Dubai Creek, and everywhere she looked construction was frenetic. Cranes, roadworks and traffic hazards, dust.
Dubai’s famous seven-star hotel suddenly reared up in front of them, its proud billowing shape catching the sun. ‘Now that’s something amazing. Is this what you meant …?’ She trailed off as the vehicle turned onto the dedicated road that led to the grand entrance. ‘Are we staying here? Here? Really?’
Bubbles of excitement fizzed through her veins. She shifted to fling her arms around him, reining herself back just in time. She needed to maintain a respectful distance while she was here. Not only because this was the United Arab Emirates but because right now she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop if she started.
But he didn’t seem bothered about the etiquette they’d discussed the other night. They were in a private car with tinted windows, after all. Leaning close so that his lips touched her hair, he murmured against her ear. ‘A honeymoon to remember, Blondie.’
She told herself flirting was okay. Harmless. ‘I’m sure it will be. Pookie.’
His brows shot up, his lips forming the word, but no sound came out. She meant the whole Arabian experience, not what he was obviously thinking she meant with that name—sex