Bride Behind The Desert Veil (The Marchetti Dynasty 3)

They’d issued the press release within hours.

Sharif was aware of the song coming to an end and the sense of exposure mixed with those other volatile emotions in his gut boiled over. He needed to shut out the voices and the swirling thoughts and refocus. And he knew only one way to do that.

Stop denying himself. Stop denying them both.

He led Liyah off the dance floor, his blood pounding. They were almost at the main entrance when he felt her pulling on his hand. He stopped, looked at her.

She said, ‘I know you don’t like to hang around, but we literally just got here.’

Sharif felt drunk with lust. The light made her skin gleam dark golden. The swells of her breasts above her bodice were a provocation he had no intention of resisting any longer. He’d forgotten why he’d ever thought it would be a good idea not to sleep with his wife.

He felt it in her too. She trembled whenever he touched her. Even now a blush was rising into her cheeks, staining them darker.

She said, ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘I don’t think this is working.’

She frowned. ‘You don’t think what isn’t working?’

But Sharif was striding through the lobby of the hotel now, cutting a swathe through the throng of guests, Liyah’s hand clamped firmly in his.

Liyah said from behind him, ‘What about Nikos and Maggie? Don’t we need to say goodbye? Don’t you have people to meet?’

‘Nikos can look after it. I’ll send him a text.’

They walked outside and a valet scrambled to call Sharif’s car and driver around. He felt Liyah shiver beside him and took off his jacket then put it on her.

He texted Nikos.

We’ve left. Will you cover for me?

He got a text back almost straight away.

Of course. Welcome to my world, brother.

There was a winking emoji, and then a laughing crying emoji.

Sharif scowled and shoved his phone back in his pocket. This, with Liyah, was nothing like what Nikos had gone through with Maggie. For a start, she’d had Nikos’s son—when he’d met her again, he’d been a father.

Sharif felt desperate. Almost feral. Things he never usually allowed himself to feel. He was always so careful to show the world that he was not his wayward father. Or his playboy brother. But he didn’t have a playboy brother any more. Right now he was channelling the Marchetti rebelliousness all by himself and he couldn’t care less.

He wanted his wife.

CHAPTER EIGHT

LIYAH ABSORBED THE heat and scent from Sharif’s jacket as the car pulled to a smooth stop beside them. He opened the door and she got in. She didn’t know what was going on with him, but she desperately resisted the temptation to believe that the heated look in his eyes meant something.

They joined the crazy Paris traffic and Liyah said nothing at first. Waiting to see if Sharif would elaborate. But he was silent. Brooding.

Eventually Liyah had to break the growing tension. ‘Um...what you said about something not working...what did you mean?’

Sharif turned to look at her, snapping out of his brooding mood. He lounged back against the side of the car. Liyah had never seen him like this. It intimidated her as much as it excited her. There was something careless about him. No... Something reckless. Dangerous.

‘I meant that I don’t think our current arrangement is working.’

The driver put up the privacy shield between the front and the back seats.

Liyah’s stomach plummeted. She’d asked too many questions. She didn’t fit into his world. She didn’t look like those other effortlessly soignée women. He didn’t want to dance. Not with her, anyway.