Bride Behind The Desert Veil (The Marchetti Dynasty 3)

Not used to being ravished.

She lifted her head and looked around. The room was empty. She spread out an arm. The bed beside her was cold. Sharif had probably left hours ago. She felt at a disadvantage. Her skin prickled and she pulled the cover over her naked body, suddenly feeling a little exposed—as if instinctively aware that he’d observed her while she slept.

Now she was being silly. Sharif Marchetti was not a man who lingered over his lovers. His absence was proof of that.

Hating feeling at such a disadvantage, and feeling like a sloth, Liyah got up and grabbed a robe from the back of Sharif’s bathroom door. It dwarfed her and it smelled of him. She resisted the urge to hold it up to her face and breathe deep, and gathered up her dress and shoes before creeping back to her own room as if she’d been engaged in some illicit activity.

Sharif watched Liyah from the other side of the room. They were in one of Paris’s famous atelier salons, where painstakingly intricate work went into creating the most stunning dresses in the world, primarily for haute couture. Clothes that could literally only be afforded by the very few and very privileged. Clothes that were often likened to pieces of art rather than fashion.

He’d found himself quite unintenionally calling Liyah to see if she wanted to come here with him.

She was wearing a long rust-coloured corduroy dress, with buttons down the front and a brown leather belt. Leather high-heeled boots. Her hair was tied back, showing off that amazing bone structure.

She looked the part of wife of the CEO of the Marchetti Group. Casual, but elegant and stylish. And she was listening intently to an older French woman—one of the typically expert seamstresses who worked behind the scenes to create the astonishing confections that would be worn down a runway at some point in the future.

Growing bored of the conversation he was meant to be listening to, about stats and figures and projections—this kind of very specialised work was at constant risk of being eroded by newer inventions and ways of creating clothes—Sharif gravitated towards Liyah, telling himself that it had nothing to do with the pull he still felt in his blood, that hadn’t cooled since last night.

He couldn’t remember a night of such unbridled passion. He had been insensible to everything but the woman under him. One orgasm had led to another until he’d been too exhausted to move.

Their night at the oasis had been a mere prelude to the most amazing chemistry he’d ever experienced. And the fact that it was happening with a woman who was his wife...was mind-blowing.

Liyah was wearing special gloves to handle a dress, and speaking to the woman in French, exclaiming over the work. The woman was obviously pleased with Liyah’s praise, her cheeks pink with pride.

‘C’est vraiment incroyable...’

Liyah looked up at Sharif as he came to stand beside her. An electric frisson sizzled up his spine. Her eyes widened as if she felt it too. The buttons at the front of her dress were fastened just low enough for him to see the curve of her breasts, the V in her cleavage.

It was an effort to drag his gaze up and see that Liyah was speaking.

‘Martine was telling me that it’s taken six months to make this dress.’

Sharif tore his gaze off Liyah and smiled at the woman. ‘Your work, as always, is sublime, Martine.’

The woman went even pinker now.

He took Liyah’s hand and the hungry beast inside him seemed to calm somewhat. A niggling observation he chose not to investigate.

Just as he was bringing her back to where he’d been talking with the design team at the house, the head designer appeared in their path.

He exclaimed dramatically, ‘Who is this creature?’ while looking at Liyah.

Sharif felt his hackles rise—which seemed to happen a lot lately, whenever someone looked at Liyah. ‘This is my wife, Liyah.’

‘You are exquisite.’

The man walked around her, looking her up and down. She looked slightly bemused. Then he introduced himself to Liyah and took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it and bowing theatrically.

Liyah smiled at the dramatics.

Sharif’s hackles went even higher.

The designer looked at Sharif. ‘I have been looking for the right person to try on one of my newest designs and now I’ve met her. Please can I borrow your wife for ten minutes?’

Sharif wanted to growl at the man. No. But he knew he was being totally irrational. The designer was paying Liyah a huge compliment, and he would look petty if he refused.

‘Of course.’ He turned to Liyah. ‘If you don’t mind?’

She looked a little uncertain, but she shrugged. ‘Not at all—if it’ll fit?’