Bride Behind The Desert Veil (The Marchetti Dynasty 3)

She held the edges of the shirt together. ‘I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. Goodnight, Sharif.’

Sharif watched as Liyah left the room, an acrid feeling in his gut. For so long in his life he’d been certain that what he was doing was the right thing. The thing that would finally bring him a sense of vengeance meted out. And then peace.

And yet now all he could see were Liyah’s huge eyes, looking at him reproachfully. He could hear her soft voice... I think you can trust them.

He turned around to face the window again and cursed. She was making him lose his focus. Damn her. Damn her for not being the wife he’d envisaged—unobtrusive and on the sidelines. Far from that, she was in his bed, under his skin, and every time he looked at her she made his mind go blank with lust.

Damn her for making him want to spill his guts.

And damn her for suddenly making him doubt everything.

Not even a hot shower could warm Liyah up. She wrapped herself in a towelling robe and curled up on the sofa in her bedroom. The extent of Sharif’s ambition to avenge his mother and destroy his father even at the risk of alienating his brothers should have shocked her, but it didn’t. After all, he’d been prepared to marry a total stranger purely to gain any advantage he could in the run-up to realising his ambition.

She felt cold at the thought of Sharif bearing this heavy, toxic burden for so long. And then she thought if she felt cold, how must he feel? He’d been alone for a lot longer than her. Trusting no one.

Obeying an instinct she couldn’t ignore, Liyah went back to Sharif’s room. He wasn’t in bed. And then she heard running water. He was in the shower.

She undid the robe and let it fall to the ground and opened the door. Sharif was standing with his hands on the wall, his head down between his shoulders. There was something so...isolated about his stance that Liyah’s heart cracked for him.

She went into the shower and inserted herself between him and the wall. He tensed at first, and those dark eyes with gold around the edges stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she was there.

She put her hands on his chest and rose up on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his mouth, which was in a hard, flat line. At first he didn’t respond. She thought he was going to reject her. But then, as if a dam had burst, Sharif put his arms around her and lifted her up.

She put her legs around him and he leant her back against the wall, running his hand over her breasts, cupping one heavy weight before bending his head to suckle on her eager flesh.

He thrust up into her body, stealing her breath and her soul. It was slow, deliberate torture, as if he was making her pay for extracting a confession he hadn’t wanted to make.

Liyah absorbed it all, and afterwards she wrapped her legs around him even tighter, felt him shudder his release into her body.

Manhattan

Sharif sat in the back of his car and pulled out his mobile phone. He texted Liyah.

I’m on my way home.

Then he stopped, deleted ‘home’ with a scowl and replaced it.

...to the apartment.

The woman was turning his brain to mush. Since that night in London, almost three weeks ago, they hadn’t discussed the subject of his plans again. When Liyah had appeared that night in his shower he’d been consumed with so many tangled emotions that he’d almost told her to leave him alone, but then she’d put her hands on him and he’d lost the will to tell her to go.

It was as if she’d sensed what he needed and taken all of him, absorbing his need to exorcise what was inside him.

The following morning, when he’d woken, he’d felt as close to a sense of peace as he’d ever experienced before in his life.

His phone pinged with a response.

Good for you.

He smiled.

It will be good for me. And for you.

After a couple of seconds:

Promises, promises...

And an eye-roll emoji.