Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) (21 page)

Slowly, she folds her arms across her chest, a formidable look perfected by teachers everywhere. ‘It’s like that, is it?’ she mocks, with a mischievous gleam. ‘You must be a fan of the bad-boys, then.’

‘No, not at all. At least I don’t think so. She’s just a bit overprotective, doesn’t seem to realise I’m not twelve.’

‘That I can understand. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to let go, speaking as a mum myself.’

‘You have children?’

‘One, but
inshallah
—if God wills it—there’ll be more. Aliyah, my little girl, has just started kindergarten here. I don’t mind admitting, I’m starting to feel broody.’

Broody? She only looks about nineteen. ‘That must be convenient, being able to bring her to work, I mean.’

‘Yeah, it is. I don’t like leaving her with the maid.’ She smiles, sort of wistful. ‘She’s my little treasure and a proper little madam. Anyway, here I am droning on like one of those mad, besotted mums when all I really wanted to say was, welcome. Its no fun being a newbie and Dubai can be a pretty daunting place. So, if you need anything, habibti, just Haaala!’ She raises her voice at the last word, pushing her palms into the air, very gangsta style.
Hijabi gangsta style.

‘I’ll remember that, thanks.’ I giggle in reply, then ask, ‘Do you speak Arabic?’ Maybe she could clear up a few things for me.

‘Nam,’ she answers, ducking her head in the affirmative.

‘Did you learn since you moved here?’

‘Nah, Dad’s Egyptian, Mum’s British,’ she explains. ‘I’ve spoken it forever. I arrived thinking my Arabic was fine but apparently I had a terrible
Masri
accent.’

‘A what?’

‘An Egyptian accent. Eaman, my husband, said I sounded awful.
Khaleeji’s.
’ She shrugs. ‘What can you do?’

‘I have no idea. You’ve completely lost me.’

‘Gulf Arabs. They can be a bit of an elitist bunch, not all of them, and not that it bothers me. I’m well balanced—got chips on both shoulders, me. Are you thinking about lessons?’

‘Maybe at some point.’ I’m laughing again; her candour and wit remind me a lot of Niamh. She has the same amount of sass. ‘You could straighten something out for me if you don’t mind?’

‘Absolutely, what do you want to know?’

‘
Habibti
—’

‘Yes, my sweet?’ she interrupts, batting her eyelashes in my direction.

‘
Okay
,’ I say, laughing. ‘But what exactly does it mean?’ Kai has used it repeatedly, citing it as overused, but what does it
actually
mean?

‘It means my dear, my love. Or darling.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yeah, pretty generic, too. From your husband, to the girl packing your groceries, to the guy trying to pick you up at Starbucks.
Habibti’,
she intones, hand dramatically clutched to her heart, ‘
please, you have stolen my heart. You are too much beautiful!
’

‘That really happens? Guys try to pick you up?’

‘Guys are guys wherever you are, and apparently, no matter what you are wearing. I mean, I wear
niqab
outside—a full face veil. It still doesn’t stop them, it’s ridiculous. I could be a right dog under my nose-bag!’ As she giggles, her expression becomes suddenly wide-eyed. ‘Oh, and if you ever meet my husband, don’t mention Starbucks lotharios or I’ll never get out of the house on my own again.’ My own smile falters as hers deepens. Yikes! It gives housebound a whole other meaning. ‘Yeah, everyone calls each other
habibti
. Or rather,
habibti
for girls,
habibi
for boys.’

A generic term of endearment is a bit of a letdown. I wonder if it’s usually used in the bedroom, not that I’m going to ask. Not yet at any rate.

We chat for a while longer about the Arabic language, the school, and of course, the weather. She’s a hoot and has a fantastically dry sense of humour. And she’s not as young as she looks, though still pretty young to be married. And a mum.

‘Bugger, look at the time!’ Gathering the unmarked papers from the desk, I stand, realising I haven’t finished one thing I’d set out to.

‘Don’t panic, Sadia will be there, though I suppose I’d better be getting back myself. It’s almost time to get the little darlings ready for
wudu
.’ She grimaces as she stands, straightening her
abaya
with a deft shake of the wrist.

‘Ready for what?’

‘
Wudu
, the ablutions before
salat
? Before heads down, bums up?’ She half smiles, holding her hands palm to palm.

‘Oh, prayer time! You have to get your class ready for prayer.’

‘Yep, it’s that time of the day again,’ she says as we walk shoulder to shoulder through the exit.

‘Do you pray along with the class?’

Asma, the Arabic teacher, supervises my class’ prayer. I’m there, but I try not to watch. It feels intrusive somehow, even though they’re only small, giggling girls just at the gates of their religious instruction.

‘Nah, I pray later or else I’d never be able to concentrate. That’s the whole point of prayer, isn’t it? Emptying your mind of everything but your devotion. We don’t have to pray when the
adhan
is called. You know, the call to prayer? It’s recommended, but it just doesn’t work for me in a class full of four and five-year-olds. I make up the prayer later in the day. I like to be alone when I call on the Almighty. Besides, you can’t take your eyes off them for a minute, can you? Little monsters would probably draw on the walls.’

‘Probably,’ I agree, reaching my classroom door. ‘Thanks for the chat and good luck with the ablutions thingy.’

‘Thanks. You have a good one.’

‘I’ll try,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘You, too.’

What a cool girl!

Chapter Nineteen

I’m home in the evening, getting ready for an early night, when my phone rings, Kai’s name flashing on the screen.

‘Hello?’ Why I pretend I don’t know it’s him, I’m not sure. Another of those reduction-in-intelligence-equally-relating-to-how-hot-he-is kind of things?

‘Kate.’ That one little word delivered in his honeyed tones liquefies my insides. ‘How are you?’ It’s not exactly a stimulating inquiry, but I think he could be reciting the phone book and I’d still have jelly legs. But still, I remember the dinosaur-sized bone I have to pick with him.

‘Confused.’

‘You haven’t been drinking again, have you?’

Despite hearing his smile, I’m not going to allow him to distract me. To reiterate the point, I pick up a pen from the nightstand, printing in large letters on the accompanying pad,
Stay strong!

‘Are you off your rocker, Kai?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Come on, who buys a virtual stranger a car?’

‘I think you and I are a little more than that.’ His tone is amused still.

I don’t reply for a moment, trying to weigh his words. ‘I can’t take it,’ I eventually manage, shaking my head.

‘Of course you can.’ Steel now joins amusement in his tone.

‘Okay, I won’t take it, then. You’ll need to sort it with Arwa, because I’ve got no idea what to say to her without making myself sound like a total—’

‘Then say nothing. Except thank you.’

‘I can’t,’ I reply, quiet but emphatic as I perch my bum on the edge of the bed. ‘You must see how this looks?’

‘To whom? Surely, the only persons concerned are on either end of this line. Besides, I haven’t personally bought you a car. It’s part of your employment contract, nothing more.’ I attempt to interject, not getting beyond an intake of breath. ‘It’s now official. To decline would be the same as refusing a promotion or a pay increase, which wouldn’t make sense. I thought you didn’t want to draw attention to our . . . friendship.’

Friendship.
That one word. A bit like disappointed. Better than stranger, I suppose, but still not enough.

‘Consider it a perk of having a friend with influence, rather than assuming I’ll expect fringe benefits between your legs.’ His tone is even, despite the sting in his words.

‘That was a bit harsh.’

‘You think I’m being harsh? That’s rich.’

‘That’s not what I think. I’m saying that’s how it
looks.
It makes me feel uncomfortable, Kai.’

‘And you think by hanging onto this discomfort, this fear of what others might say, you’re being strong? Sometimes the greatest strength is in knowing when to let go.’ Why do I feel that he isn’t only talking about the car? ‘Can’t you let me do this one thing?’

‘What kind of car is it?’ My voice is tiny, but I can’t help ask, which makes him laugh. Which in turn, makes me cringe. ‘
Don’t
,’ I protest. ‘I’ve never had a new car before, that’s all.’ God, I feel so conflicted, as if I wasn’t loaded up enough before.

‘I don’t know, perhaps a small SUV. You’ll just have to wait and see. Are you at home?’

‘What? Yeah, I’m just about ready for bed.’ I perch my butt further on the item in question.

‘I just bet you are.’ This time, his laugh is absolutely indecent and the first indicator that our conversation is turning down Smutty Street.

‘Bad kitty,’ he scolds playfully. ‘Leading me neatly to the point where I just have to ask what you’re wearing.’

My stomach flips again, his words like fingertips playing down my spine. Unsure of how to respond, I laugh, aiming for flirtatious, though I’d settle for anything other than manic right about now. I glance down at my ensemble.
Does he really want to know?

‘Cat got your tongue? You know, you instigated this,’ he says, drawing out the words.

‘I did?’ I glance down and answer with a deflated sigh. ‘I’m wearing my onesie.’

It’s his turn for a moment of introspection before he speaks. ‘I’m trying very hard to imagine but given that I don’t know what an
actual
onesie is, I may need a little help.’

‘It’s a sort of an all-in-one pajama thingy. Starting at my feet, which are covered in . . . little booties? And ends at my neck. With a zip.’
Shoot me. Please, somebody put me out of my misery.
‘A bit like what babies wear.’

‘You’re wearing a baby sleep suit?’ he asks in a slow tone of bewilderment.

‘Obviously not one an
actual
baby would wear, but yeah, a sleep suit sounds about right.’

‘Is this some kind of fetish of yours?’

‘What? No!’ He can’t be serious. ‘It’s just cold in the air con . . .’ I hate how this comes out in a whine. Why didn’t I tell him to bugger off and look at the Asos website?

He groans. Without passion. ‘Don’t you know how this conversation is supposed to go?’

‘Sorry.’ I giggle, rolling onto my side. He really is laying this on thick. ‘Would it help if I said it’s in a leopard print?’ That’s sort of sexy. I won’t tell him it has a hood with cute ears and a tail because that
would
be weird.

‘Strangely, no.
A baby suit?
’

‘What if I told you I was entirely naked under said suit?’ I can’t believe I just said that. Seriously. And in that tone, too.

‘Go on,’ he purrs. ‘Include the words wet and want along with that naked.’

His words curl around my ear, creep down my spine and explode just south of my navel. ‘I just got out of the shower.’ I’m not entirely sure where
that
came from, but I definitely feel a little wet and wanting myself, not to mention warm all of a sudden.

‘And?’

‘I’m all soft and smooth . . . shaven.’

I wouldn’t know seductive if I’d rolled in it.

‘Shaven where, specifically?’

‘The usual places—legs, underarms.’

‘Anywhere else?’

‘What?’ Where else? I don’t have hairy fingers.
Ohhh
. ‘No. Nowhere else. I don’t want to, er, invite ingrown hairs.’

Stop. Talking. Now. Or tell him I haven’t found a decent wax therapist?

‘Ingrown hairs.’ He makes those two words sound positively lewd.

‘I prefer waxing, despite a . . . recent hiatus.’ My shoulders are bunched around my ears. Who explains the intricacies of their
toilette
to a drop-dead gorgeous guy? I may have begun this conversation with the mention of bed, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

‘Would it be very wrong of me to say I’m quite aroused at this juncture?’ Arousal at the mention of ingrown hairs, or are we still on wet and wanting?
‘I’d say my mind is in the right
region
for arousal, but there are other regions worth . . . exploration, too
.
’

The smile in his tone distracts me from his allusion, though I’m pretty sure we aren’t talking geography. Or topiary.

‘You have such a beautiful body, Kate.’ His appreciation hums down the line. ‘I want to explore it all. Can you imagine?’

Can I? Not really, but it doesn’t stop the almost mesmerizing effects of his voice. Grasping the pen from the nightstand, I suddenly feel the need to underline my mantra again.

‘You looked so beautiful draped against the back of the sofa that first evening. It’s become an erotic flashback which makes me hard at the most inopportune times.’ He laughs softly and all I can think is,
he’s seen me naked and he’s thought about it. More than once!
‘It’s such a rush to watch the things you’ve imagined, the moments you’ve planned come to life. I can’t help but picture how you’d look braced over the arm of that sofa. Held open. High and wide.’

My fingers fumble, sending the pen sliding across the pad as his words and their mirroring images flash through my head.

‘Have you ever . . .’

‘Ever what?’ I whisper back.

‘You’re fantastic.’ He chuckles darkly. ‘You want me to spell it out for you?’

I’m not being coy. Yes, an explanation is necessary. Accompanying diagrams might help, too.

‘I . . . erm . . .’

‘Close your eyes,’ he coaxes. ‘Imagine you’re wrapped in my arms, so close you can feel my heart beat against your back. And I’m hard, pressed against you and you’re wet,
so
wet.’
No problems with imagery so far. Please, do go on.
‘I bend you forward over the arm of the chair and step between your open legs, our hearts beginning to beat faster—mine with excitement, yours with a touch of trepidation. Fear. Then my thumbs trace your spine, moving down to break you apart like a soft, ripe peach.’ He doesn’t speak for a beat. ‘Before I push inside.’