His Queen by Desert Decree

‘You have so much to learn about women,’ Molly responded with saccharine sweetness as she yanked his lean, powerful body out of her path and slid behind him to stalk back to the bedroom. ‘But you won’t be learning it from me—’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Azrael demanded rawly, striding after her, dark golden eyes flaming with frustration even as the sway of her curvaceous hips in that dress attracted his grudging attention.

‘That when you label a woman a lying gold-digger, she’s not going to be your business or your wife any more!’ Molly completed. ‘I’ve had it up to my throat with Djalia and its freaky King—’

‘I am not freaky,’ Azrael enunciated with perfect diction.

‘But you’re not the sharpest tool in the box either,’ Molly hazarded with a downright unpleasant glance in his direction. ‘Your own Djalian bodyguards have accompanied me to the care home every day to visit my non-existent grandfather. Did you think of checking with them before you unleashed all this drama on me? No, you did not think.’

And Azrael was confounded by that statement because he knew it was true. He prided himself on his calm control and logic but both had inexplicably gone missing when he most needed them at his disposal. The belief that Molly had lied to him, made a fool of him and deceived him had eaten him alive and his rarely released temper had taken hold of him. For the first time it occurred to him that he might somehow have got it wrong because Molly was not behaving like a guilty person.

‘So, explain to me how your grandfather is dead and yet not dead,’ Azrael demanded quite seriously and with his usual imperious edge.

‘It’s not happening. I’m out of here, bag and baggage,’ Molly told him roundly, grabbing up a suitcase and thinking better of it. ‘No, that doesn’t belong to me. None of it does. The clothes in these cases were bought with your money so they are not mine—’

‘Stop this...now!’ Azrael thundered at her. ‘You are not leaving me—’

Glittering green eyes struck his. ‘Watch me,’ she invited, sashaying out of the door again, carrying only her handbag.

‘You’re my wife—’

‘And you called me a lying gold-digger. I will not stay married to a man who thinks that of me!’ Molly spat back at him in rage.

‘If I have made a mistake I will make up for it,’ Azrael swore with touching faith in his own powers of persuasion. ‘But you are not leaving me—’

‘I am leaving you,’ Molly repeated with emphasis. ‘And you’re not allowed to make mistakes of that magnitude and be forgiven for them! There is no get-out-of-jail-free card here!’

‘I will not allow you to leave me,’ Azrael shot back at her with suppressed savagery, wondering why she was referring to a prison. ‘That option isn’t on the table. You are already my wife—’

‘Without my consent...remember?’ Molly reminded him doggedly.

Azrael voiced a very rude English word and snatched her off her feet. ‘I don’t care. You are not leaving me,’ he repeated stubbornly, ignoring her struggles as he carted her back into their bedroom and planted her down on the bed like a rock being settled firmly back into sand. ‘This is your home now.’

‘You can’t force me to stay here against my will and you know you can’t!’ Molly told him defiantly. ‘I’d scream the place down, I’d run away, I’d be a nightmare!’

‘Explain your “not dead” grandfather,’ Azrael persisted, lounging back against the door to prevent her from trying to leave again.

Molly dealt him a hostile appraisal. ‘Why should I?’

‘It would be the adult approach.’

‘You’re one to talk,’ Molly snapped. ‘You jumped straight to nasty conclusions.’

‘My past experiences with women have made me distrustful and cynical.’

Molly closed her eyes tight, furious at the idea of him ever having been with anyone else. It was a totally unreasonable reaction but that was how she felt: as if he was hers, body and soul. Such a possessive feeling was not something to celebrate just at that moment, she reflected with self-loathing.

‘Explain,’ Azrael demanded.

‘My grandmother, a widow, married Maurice Devlin when my mother was a baby. My mother’s birth father died before she was born, never mind my birth. Maurice has always been my grandfather and I rarely remember that we’re not related by blood,’ she confided truthfully. ‘He raised my mother as his daughter. When she died he continued to treat me as his grandchild and I’ve always thought of him as family...the only family I have.’

‘Thank you. That has clarified the situation,’ Azrael responded with dignity, torn between relief that his worst imaginings were groundless and anger that he, who prided himself on his cool head and judgement, could have put himself so much in the wrong.

Molly recognised the conflicting emotions chasing across his lean, darkly handsome face and noted the colour rising to accentuate his exotic cheekbones as he accepted the truth of her explanation. She wondered dimly what kind of behaviour his past experiences with women had entailed and crushed a curiosity that she knew would only upset her.

‘I am very sorry for my misapprehension,’ Azrael murmured gruffly. ‘I insulted you.’

He was defensive, wearing his Mr Grumpy expression again and, even aware that she was the injured party, Molly was impressed that he could rise above his pride to apologise. ‘I’m still annoyed with you,’ she admitted.