The Sheikh's Wife

“The palace was never a prison!”

“It felt like one. You left me there alone, trapped in the harem.”

“You knew in advance the wives eat, sleep, socialize in their own quarters. You were raised in the Middle East. You knew our customs.”

“But I married you. I expected to be with you.”

“And you were, at night. I had you brought to me most evenings, if I wasn’t away on business, or obligated to entertain.” He drew a deep breath, his composure also shaken. He pressed knuckles to his temple, his jaw rock-hard. “Regardless of your feelings about the palace, we can’t afford to take chances with your safety. The problem with being a princess worth millions—billions of dollars—is that people will come at you from every direction.”

“No one even knows I’m your wife!”

“They will.”

The assurance in his voice sent shivers down her spine. They will because he’d make sure people knew she belonged to him, he’d make sure no one like Stan could ever grow fond of her, make sure she remained alone in the ivory tower. “You’ll make me a prisoner in my own home.”

“The price we pay for being rich.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she averted her head.

“Your parents were killed by extremists,” he continued more softly. “You, of all people, should know that the world is dangerous.”

“And I’ve chosen to live without fear.” Once she left Zwar she turned her back on exotic locales and wild adventure. No more nomadic travels. No more yearning for far-off places. Her parents’ instability had destroyed their family. She wouldn’t do that to Ben.

“I will not become someone else just to give you peace of mind,” she added hoarsely, unwilling to remember the bomb blast at the marketplace or the horror of her parents’ death. She’d been sent to Aunt Rose in Dallas, and Rose had been wonderful. Thank God for her aunt’s warmth and support.

She felt rather than heard Kahlil move behind her. He walked quietly, stealthily, like a big cat. Beautiful and oh, so lethal.

“And I will not let a hair on your head be harmed,” he murmured, reaching out and drawing her toward him.

She tensed and he kissed the back of her neck.

His lips against her skin, and it was the most amazing pleasure she could imagine.

A shudder raced through her, nipples hardening, heat filling her belly. Just a kiss and she wanted him. Just a touch and she started to melt.

Her nerves screamed. Hot tears stung her closed eyes. She wanted to feel his hand on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.

Slowly he plucked the tortoiseshell pins from her coiled hair, combing the long tangled strands smooth. “Not a hair,” he repeated, lifting the light gold strands, fingers caressing the silky length. “Despite everything, I still want you, I still want to love your body.”

“No.” It was a desperate denial, her lips twisting as shudders of feeling traveled the length of her spine. She felt warm where she’d been cold. Soft where she ought to be hard. Resist him. Resist him!

“Yes. And I forgive you,” he added, kissing her nape again, creating fresh pleasure, more intense sensation. His hands slid to her shoulders. He held her securely. “I forgive you and want only to have you home again.”

His words cut her, deep stabbing wounds, reminding her of the secret she’d worked so hard to keep from him. She’d spent the last three years denying she’d ever been part of him, ignoring that her child, their child…

But his home would never be her home, not after what Amin had done. Not after what she had done.

Kahlil’s lips moved across her nape and Bryn closed her eyes, head falling forward, caught up in the rawness of her emotions. Need flamed inside her, need to be held, touched, loved. Stan cared for her but it had never felt like this. Never had the power, or the passion.

The old kettle began to boil, the little cap whistling softly. “We have to move on,” she choked, the air aching inside her lungs, her heart as fragile as a delicate glass ornament. Remembering the damage Amin had done, Kahlil would never forgive her betrayal, never understood why she turned to his cousin. “I need to put the past behind. I need to go forward.”

The teakettle’s whistle grew louder. “But I cannot.”

“Why not? You’re one of the most accomplished, educated men in the Middle East. You hold degrees from Oxford and Harvard—”

He reached past her, moved the kettle from the burner, silencing the shrill whistle. “I might have been educated in the West, but my pride, is Arabic. I am Arabic. And my pride demands justice. An eye for an eye…a tooth for a tooth…”

“A humiliation for a humiliation,” she added, turning slowly, helplessly, toward him.

“Exactly.”

“So until I go with you on this weekend, I will never be free.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Kahlil watched her eyes widen, the blue irises flecked with bright bits of purple and black. Anger and defiance burned in her eyes, turning the color to glowing sapphires, rich, rare, prized.

“You aren’t really giving me a choice then, are you?” she demanded.

He checked the smile that curled the corners of his mouth. She looked the picture of injured innocence, eyes bright, full soft lips trembling. Oh, but didn’t he know that expression? And hadn’t he heard that same inflection play through his head at least a thousand times since the night she’d left him?

He found it ironic, too, that even angry, she was still prettier than a poster girl, her face all heart-shaped sweetness, her creamy skin framed by silky hair the color of citron and sunshine. He had always loved her hair, loved to run his hands through the softness and the hundred different shades of gold spill through his fingers.

He’d been furious when Amin told him about Bryn’s wedding. He couldn’t believe she dared to marry another man. His anger burned so hotly that he’d feared what he’d do when he arrived at her house, but when she opened the door, the violence in his heart faded, leaving only resolve. She was his. She would go home with him.

“Of course you have a choice. You can be mine, completely, for four nights, or you can be mine, in name, for the rest of your life. It’s entirely up to you.”

The choice obviously horrified her, and for a moment he felt almost sympathy, until he remembered how she’d walked out on him, no apology, no attempt to reconcile, nothing. She vowed to love him and she broke that vow, in less than a year.

It was time she learned the importance of a promise. In Zwar, one’s life depended on one’s word.

She moved away from him, filling the French press with boiling water, tightening the top, pushing the coffee through the fine grounds. He watched her hands, watched the concentration on her face.

She handed him his cup, careful to avoid touching him. “How did you know I was getting married?”

“Amin told me.” He lifted his cup to his mouth, sipped the strong black liquid, noting the flicker in her eyes and the sudden press of her lips. “Your hatred for my cousin is unacceptable, and undeserved. No one has supported you more than he.”

“I can imagine.”

“You doubt me?”

“I doubt him.” Her voice was as brittle as a branch encased in ice. “How did he find out about the wedding?”

Kahlil shrugged. “He spotted your announcement on the Internet while reading a Dallas paper.”

“Don’t you find that rather coincidental? Amin reading a Dallas newspaper on the Internet? Why should he care about Dallas news?”

“I have investments here. Manufacturers. Oil refineries.” He watched her struggle to control her temper and he frowned. “You scorn his loyalty, but he’s been more faithful than you, my young wife.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to indict Amin, to blurt the terrible truth about Kahlil’s favorite cousin, but before she could speak she heard a car pull up outside, parking next to her house.

Goose bumps peppered her flesh. It couldn’t

be Mrs. Taylor back already, could it?

She was moving for the door, practically running. She heard Kahlil speak, something about her decision and had she made a choice, but she didn’t answer, dread, fear, panic consuming her.

From the front door Bryn caught a glimpse of a truck parked at her curb. Mrs. Taylor’s old Ford pickup. And next to Mrs. Taylor she spotted a small dark head. Ben.

That was the phone call. Mrs. Taylor had been ringing to let Bryn know she’d be returning Ben early. And here she was, bringing Benjamin home at the absolute worst possible time, straight into the arms of his father.

“Friends?” Kahlil asked, appearing behind her. She couldn’t see his face but she felt his tension, his gaze focused on the truck parked outside and the passengers within.

She couldn’t have answered him if her life depended on it.

The truck door opened and a child tumbled out dressed in jeans, T-shirt, white sneakers.

She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stay in place. She was out the door and down the front steps, running toward the truck, her eyes only on Ben. Her heart felt like a mashed plum, pulpy and bruised. As she reached her son, swinging him up into her arms, she knew she’d lost.

She couldn’t do anything right. Couldn’t even protect Ben when she needed to most.

Cold from head to toe, Bryn began to tremble. Her arms felt like matchsticks. Her legs like feather pillows. Sinking to the ground, she collapsed onto the rough asphalt. It was over. The hiding, the running, the pretending. It was over.

She hugged Ben hard, needing him, fearing for him. Every choice in her life, every mistake she’d made, had come to this.

Kahlil’s footsteps sounded behind her. The leather heels of his shoes echoing too loudly on the cracked cement walk.