Bride Behind The Desert Veil (The Marchetti Dynasty 3)

Which she pretty much was.

Sharif walked out, taking his jacket with him, and Liyah breathed out fully for the first time since they’d arrived at the apartment.

She dutifully followed Thomas around the different rooms and tried not to let her jaw drop too obviously. There were two dining rooms—informal and formal. A massive kitchen with its own elegant dining area. There was a gym, with a lap pool, and a media centre, complete with a cinema that could seat about fifty people.

There were numerous bedrooms.

She noticed that Thomas didn’t show her into Sharif’s, but she was given a room just across the hall and it was show-stopping. Decorated in dark blues and greys, with a shag pile carpet, it was decadent and glamorous.

It had its own terrace and a dressing room, and en suite bathroom that was about as big as the hammam back in Taraq.

Thomas stood in the doorway, not a hint of curiosity about the fact that the new Mrs Marchetti and her husband were obviously not traditional man and wife showing on his face.

‘As Mr Marchetti said, let me know if you have any specific dietary preferences and I’ll pass them on to the chef.’

The chef!

Liyah balked. ‘How many staff are here?’

Thomas calculated for a second. ‘Daily, about three—the housemaid, the chef and myself. Then weekly there’s a few more—the florist...people like that.’

Liyah had seen the gorgeous colourful blooms in the hall... Thomas was looking at her. She hadn’t answered. ‘Oh, sorry—nothing. No preferences. I eat anything.’

Thomas looked almost comically taken aback for a moment, and then he bowed ever so slightly and smiled. ‘Very good. Dinner will be served at seven, and Mr Marchetti will be in the lounge for an aperitif at six-thirty. Just press the bell by your bed if you need anything in the meantime.’

Thomas left and Liyah investigated her space. Her luggage had been magically unpacked and put away, and she tried not to wince at how shabby her things looked in the pristine space.

She had sisters who wouldn’t be caught dead in anything without a designer label, but that had just been one of the many differences between them and Liyah.

She explored the terrace, taking in the truly stupendous view. The sidewalk looked many miles below her, where people scurried like ants. The sky was bright blue and the air was sharp and cold. But there was no snow.

Liyah had never seen snow. It hadn’t ever been that cold when she’d been in Europe.

Despite her sleep on the plane, Liyah felt weary. It had been a tumultuous couple of days. And this was supposedly her wedding night with her new husband. Except it was morning—daytime—and they were on the other side of the world. And he obviously had no intention of sleeping with her again.

Thoroughly discombobulated, and not wanting to dwell on the revelations of her new situation, Liyah took off her clothes and crawled into the enormous bed between sheets that felt like silk to the touch. She was asleep in seconds.

That evening Sharif looked out over the view of a lowering grey sky. He’d never really got used to the cold winters in New York, but as this was where he’d moved the headquarters of the Marchetti Group’s operations after his father’s death he’d come to tolerate them.

Moving here from the main hub in Rome had been his first step in breaking all ties with his father’s legacy. His first step in stamping out his father’s influence. The next steps would be the final death knells and would wipe Domenico Marchetti’s name out of existence, reducing his legacy to dust.

But even now, as he reminded himself of all that was at stake and all that was to come, Sharif couldn’t focus. He was distracted. He’d been distracted all day. Thinking of her. His new wife. The woman who was also his mysterious temptress from the oasis—who had lured him like a siren and then kissed him like a novice.

But now he knew better. She’d been no novice.

She’d known exactly what she was doing at that oasis and she’d taken him for a complete fool—

A sound from behind him brought his thoughts to a stop. He turned around slowly. His wife stood in the doorway. She looked hesitant. She was wearing a long cream traditional Taraqi tunic. V-necked, it dipped just low enough to show the top of the curve of her breasts. She also wore slim-fitting matching trousers and flat sandals. He noticed there was still henna on her feet. If this was a traditional marriage he would be taking her to his bed tonight.

A skewer of need twisted in Sharif’s gut and he crushed it. This was not a traditional marriage and he would not be taking her to his bed. Ever again.

Her hair was down, curling wildly around her shoulders, parted in the middle to reveal the effortless beauty of her face. Those huge almond eyes. Wide, generous mouth, lush lips. High cheekbones.

Sharif could imagine her as a teenager, all coltish limbs and awkward grace. But now she was a grown woman, and he had seriously underestimated her.

‘Would you like a drink?’ He for

ced civility into his voice when he felt far from civil.