The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride

If he’d cared, he would have.

If he cared…

Tally stopped pacing, arms going slack, heart squeezing. Maybe that was what was driving her mad. She wanted him to care. She wanted him to care and he didn’t.

Oh God. It was true. He’d never said he’d cared. He’d said he wanted her. He’d said he’d possess her and claim her. He’d said many things about ownership but never once about love.

Her lower lip trembled and she bit into it ruthlessly. What did you expect, Tally girl? It’s one thing to care about your neighbors, and have feelings of goodwill for those around you, and those less fortunate than you, but to fall for a Berber sheikh? For a man that would rather kidnap women than meet them on an online dating service?

Numbly Tally sat down on the carved chest in front of the window and stared blindly out at a horizon she didn’t see. What she saw was herself. What she saw was heartache.

What she saw was loneliness and pain. Men like Tair didn’t want to be close to other people, least of all women. Men like Tair didn’t share feelings and communicate emotions, or needs or dreams. No, they made decisions. They took action. But they didn’t let anyone get close. Didn’t become vulnerable.

Tally knew about men like Tair because Paolo, her Brazilian lover and friend, had been the same.

And look where that got him. Dead. Falling off Everest in one of his daring adventures.

Exhaling hard, Tally blew out a stream of air, and with a shaking hand pushed a long strand of hair back from her eyes. She’d fallen so hard for him, too.

She’d fallen just the way Paolo had and just like Paolo she had no safety line, no rope or anchor. She was just going down.

Her fingers curled, her stomach knotting the same way. What had she done? What had she been thinking? How could she have let down her guard, allowed him into her heart? Hadn’t she been hurt before? Hadn’t Paolo’s death taught her anything?

Good grief, if she was going to fall in love again, why couldn’t she fall for a nice, sensitive man who’d treat her like a princess, someone who’d puther first?

Maybe because she wasn’t comfortable with touchy-feely men. Maybe because men who kept her at arm’s length made her work for their love, made her feel as if she had to earn their love. Like her father.

After all, isn’t that why she’d stayed home as long as she did? Wanting to prove to her dad that she was loyal? Loving? Good?

That she—of all the kids—respected him most. Loved him best.

Tally bit her tongue, gave her head a faint shake. Couldn’t be. Couldn’t be. That wasn’t the case, wasn’t the scenario at all. She stayed home, gave up her UCLA scholarship because she was needed, not because she had to be Daddy’s girl.

Goddamn it, she wasn’t Daddy’s girl.

She blinked, her eyes suddenly burning, her chest feeling just as hot, her throat filled with the same gritty emotion. It would have been pointless to give up her college scholarship, her chance to play volleyball at a top ranked school for her father’s love. That would have been stupid. She wasn’t his favorite, not even close. Mandy was his girl. And the boys, they were his, too. But not asthmatic Tally with her serious brown hair and serious brown eyes and serious tortoise frame glasses she wore until she got contact lenses her sophomore year of high school.

Serious Tally—even as a killer athlete—was never Dad’s girl. Not even when she did everything exactly right.

Tally reached out, grasped a handful of the silk curtain, crushing the sheer panel in her palm. How pointless it had been to do everything right. How pointless to have given up her dreams to try to make his come true.

If only she’d been bad. If only she’d been more selfish. If only she’d learned to be tougher, harder sooner.

Her fingers tightened convulsively around the fabric, squishing it into a smaller ball of silk. Feelings weren’t good. Feelings, she knew, couldn’t be trusted.

Just like now.

Tally drew a deep breath, held the air bottled inside her lungs until the burning sensation left her eyes, until her throat ached for another breath, until she knew she’d gotten a handle on the tumultuous feelings.

Okay. Finally she exhaled and rose. Whatever she felt wasn’t going to influence her decisions. She was still going to leave here. Still going to have the adventures she wanted, adventures for one, not two. She wasn’t going to let anyone interfere with her dream for herself—least of all a desert bandit sheikh named Tair.

On the second day, eager to pass the time as well as put Tair from her mind, she agreed to visit the bath house with the ladies. She had a milk bath, which seemed odd, but the women convinced her it was good for her skin.