Bride Behind The Desert Veil (The Marchetti Dynasty 3)

Liyah went hot and cold at the same time at the thought of constantly being exposed in her desire for him.

Sharif’s mouth straightened. ‘Please accept my apologies. In future I will ask your permission first.’

Liyah was sorry she’d said a word now. Sharif Marchetti, also known as Sheikh Sharif Bin Noor al Nazar, was not a man who asked permission for anything. He demanded and people acquiesced. As she’d acquiesced all too easily.

Struggling to maintain a modicum of dignity, Liyah tipped up her chin. ‘I’m quite tired now. I’m going to bed.’

‘Goodnight, Liyah.’

She turned, and walked away as gracefully as she could, aware of Sharif’s eyes boring into her back.

He was probably still laughing at her.

Sharif watched Liyah walk away, his gaze drawn helplessly to the sway of her hips. The smooth expanse of her skin above the neckline of the dress. Her bare shoulders.

She’d certainly proved to be a complementary foil this evening. If she kept it up like that she would be the perfectly convenient wife he’d wanted.

If it wasn’t for the irritating fact that you want her so badly you had to kiss her on the street like a crass boy.

Sharif ignored the inner voice and focused on the niggle of disquiet that told him a society party girl didn’t change her spots so easily.

Your brother Nikos did.

He ignored that reminder too. His brother had been one of the world’s most notorious playboys until he’d met his wife Maggie and then a year later had discovered he had a son. But, as Sharif liked to goad him all the time, he was sure it was only a temporary state of affairs before Nikos realised what he was missing and went back to his old ways.

After all, they were both their father’s sons, and their father hadn’t had a committed bone in his body. Unless you counted his commitment to fleecing his wives and using their money to build up the company...

But in the end their father hadn’t even had the commitment to further his own ambitions—had become drunk and corrupt on success, wealth and status. He’d died in the arms of his latest lover, any reputation he’d built up shot to pieces. And that was when Sharif had realised the extent of his father’s betrayal.

He hadn’t stolen from his mother and effectively killed her for the good of anything. He had done it only to satiate his intense greed and to prove that disinheriting him had been a mistake.

Domenico Marchetti had never got over the fact that he’d been passed over in his father’s will for his younger brother. Sharif’s father had arrogantly assumed he’d inherit, even though he’d put no time or effort into the modest family business, but it had been left to his brother instead.

Part of Domenico’s bid for power had included getting revenge on his brother by ruining the business. His own family’s inheritance. Sharif even had a memory of his uncle—a broken man—coming to Domenico, begging for help, for mercy. Sharif’s father had slapped him across the face and thrown him out on the street.

Sharif shoved aside the unwelcome rush of memories. Liyah might have been a compliant foil this evening, but she was probably just lulling him into a false sense of security before she displayed her true colours again and reverted to type.

And that would not happen. Not while she was his wife.

CHAPTER SIX

‘SHE’S WHERE?’

Sharif stood up from the boardroom table and a dozen faces turned towards him expectantly. He waved a hand to indicate they should go on without him and walked over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, shoving his free hand in the pocket of his trousers.

The disembodied voice came again. ‘She’s in Central Park, sir...playing in the snow.’

Sharif couldn’t see Central Park from where he was. It was north and he looked south, towards lower Manhattan. He cursed.

‘Playing with who?’

‘Er...some kids, sir.’

Sharif absorbed this.

Liyah had sent a text from the phone he’d furnished her with earlier, wanting to know if there were plans for that evening. He’d informed her that, yes, there were. They were due to attend a dinner. And then she’d asked if she could have a few hours to go out. He’d said of course she could. He wasn’t her gaoler.

He’d fully expected that she would use the car to drive her from designer boutique to designer boutique. Not that she would ditch the car and insist on walking. To Central Park. To play in the snow.