Marriage Behind the Fa?ade (9 page)

You don’t have any emotions.

He had emotions, but he’d learned at an early age to bury them deep. If you didn’t react, no one could hurt you. He’d stopped crying for his mother when he was three, stopped crying for his nanny at six.

And he’d grown determined, the older he got, that no one would force him to do what he did not want to do. Ever. He’d had little choice when he was young, but once he’d reached the age of majority, he’d been determined to make his own decisions, regardless of what his family thought.

He was the third son. His recalcitrance would be annoying, but not shattering. Indeed, his father, beyond the marriage with Dimah, had seemed in no rush to arrange another wedding for him. But once Adan became their uncle’s heir, his mother grew determined to see each of her sons married and producing heirs. No doubt to consolidate their family’s grip on the throne.

As if it were necessary. There were at least four Al Dhakirs who could inherit—and there would soon be more since Isabella was pregnant.

He’d always intended to take a proper Jahfaran wife. When he was ready. But first he’d wanted to have fun.

You have no emotions.

He could still see Sydney’s face, the paleness of her skin. She’d looked drawn, tired. Her voice had shook as she’d accused him of marrying her to avoid another arranged marriage.

He’d denied it, and yet—

She had not been entirely wrong. He’d known what awaited him in Jahfar when he’d met her. He’d simply been putting off the inevitable.

But then she’d become a part of his life, and he’d wanted her in a way he’d wanted no one else. And, for one brief moment, he’d thought,
why not?

He’d known how she felt about him. And he’d never once believed he was taking advantage of those feelings. He was a wealthy prince, considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the world, along with his brothers.

The woman he married would be fortunate. Honored. He was a great prize, a catch beyond compare.

Malik frowned. He’d been proud, arrogant, certain he was right. Certain he was making her life better when in fact he seemed to have made it worse.

She’d loved him once. He knew that she had, even if she’d only said the words on their last night together. She’d loved him.

But not enough. If she had, she wouldn’t have run away.

His grip on the
shisha
tightened. There was nothing left between them now but passion. She might not love him, but she did want him. He would have to be made of stone not to know it. He could feel the electricity between them when she was near, feel the way she quivered with anticipation. When he touched her, she leaned into his touch. And she fought with herself until she won the battle and pushed him away.

His body ached with need for her. He remembered her touch, her scent, the feel of her beneath him. He missed that. He wanted to possess her again, wanted to own her mouth and her lush body. Wanted her to admit she wanted him, that maybe they had unfinished business left between them.

He’d brought her out here because he was angry. But also because he wanted to leave behind all the distractions of Port Jahfar. Out here in the desert, there was nothing but space and time.

Nothing to distract them. Nothing to interfere.

Malik climbed to his feet and thanked the Bedu for their hospitality. Then he stalked toward the tent where he’d left his wife.

Sydney lay in the big bed beneath a pile of furs. She’d been shocked at how cold the air grew after the sun went down. Malik had sent a Bedouin girl with food earlier, but she hadn’t seen him since earlier in the day when he’d left her alone in the darkened tent with her heart in her throat.

Why could they not be in a room together without wounding each other? Why did every conversation between them degenerate into a battle of words, of old hurts flung so carelessly?

Sydney shoved a hand behind her head, stared up at the darkness. A small light burned nearby, throwing a purple glow into the room. She’d thought it was an oil lamp at first, had even managed to say the words in Arabic, but the Bedu girl smiled and shook her head as she flipped a small switch in the back.

A sound in the other room lodged her heart in her throat. She sat up, dragging the covers up with her. Waiting. What if it wasn’t Malik? This was a wild, untamed place—even her cell phone didn’t work, much to her dismay. What would she do?

A long shadow appeared on the wall, and then a man stepped into the room.

“Malik?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

“You are awake,” he said.

Relief made her sag into the mattress. “Yes. It’s so quiet here.” Not just that, but she’d been wondering about him. Worrying about him.

He began to remove his clothing. She could see the fabric whisper over his head, see the gleam of his bare chest in the lamplight. Her breath caught in her throat.

“I—I didn’t know when you’d be back. I’ll move to the couch in the other room.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled at his boots. “No,” he said, and her heart skipped.

“No? I won’t sleep with you, Malik, and I won’t have sex with you,” she said in a heated rush.

“So you keep saying. But I don’t believe you, Sydney.” He stood, still wearing the loose trousers he’d had on beneath the
dishdasha.
They hung low on his lean hips, tied at the waist with a drawstring. His hipbones protruded from the waistband, and her mouth went dry.

Oh, dear God. His abdomen was as tight as ever, his chest sculpted with lean muscle. His body was perfect.

Her heart throbbed. And, God help her, her body was responding.

“You won’t force me,” she blurted.

He put his hands on his hips. “No, I won’t. But I won’t have to, will I?”

Before she knew what he was planning, he grabbed her foot and dragged her down until she was lying flat on the bed. And then he was on top of her, his body hovering over hers but not quite touching.

His head dropped, his lips skimming her throat. She splayed her hands against his chest, intending to push him away—except that she didn’t quite manage to do so. Heat seared her, glorious heat.

She arched her neck, bit her lip to stop the moan that threatened.

“You want me,” he said, his voice a sensual rumble against her skin. “You burn for me.” “No,” she replied.

“No …”

“Then push, Sydney,” he urged heatedly. “By God, push me away. Or I won’t be responsible.”

CHAPTER NINE

SYDNEY was frozen, like a small animal trying to hide from a much larger predator. She wanted to be strong, wanted to push him away—and she didn’t. She wanted him with a fierceness that no longer surprised her. She wanted him inside her, his powerful body moving with precision, taking them both to heaven and back.

Her fingers curled, her eyes closing. Oh, how it hurt to want her desert prince so badly. To know that she would never truly have him, even if she offered herself up here and now.

She thought he would kiss her, thought that her inability to move would bring him to her and begin what she wanted oh so desperately.

Instead, he rolled away from her.

Sydney blinked back tears—of frustration, of anger, of sadness? She was no longer certain. Being with Malik again confused things. Confused her.

“Why did you leave, Sydney?” He sounded almost tormented. “We had
this
—and you left.”

“You know why,” she said, pushing the words past the ache in her throat.

“No, I don’t. I know what you told me—that you overheard my conversation—but why did that make you go? Why didn’t you confront me?”

“Confront you?” she choked out. “How could I do that? You humiliated me!”

“Which should have made you angry.”

“It did make me angry!”

He rolled onto his side to face her. “Then explain to me how you thought leaving would fix the problem.”

Sydney scrambled up to a sitting position. Shame flooded her. How could she say it? How could she explain that she’d always known she wasn’t good enough for him? That she knew it was too good to be true? It had always been a matter of time before he no longer wanted her.

So why did you agree to marry him?

“I was upset,” she said. “Hurt. You didn’t want me, and I wasn’t about to stay and pretend I didn’t know it. And then, then …” She couldn’t finish, couldn’t speak about their last night together when she’d told him how she felt and been met with silence. It was too humiliating, even now.

“When did I say I didn’t want you?”

She thought back. He’d never actually said those words, had he? But what else could he have meant when he said marrying her was a mistake?

She shook her head. He was trying to confuse her, and she wouldn’t allow it. She had to hold onto her anger, her pain. “You told your brother you made a mistake. What was I supposed to think?”

He reached for her hand, took it in one of his. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her. “I did make a mistake, Sydney. Because I married you without giving you a chance to realize what this kind of life entailed. Did you know my mother would despise you? That you would always be an outsider in Jahfar? Did you have any idea what being my wife would entail? I gave you no chance to discover these things.”

Her heart hurt. Her head. Her throat felt like sand. “Are you really trying to tell me that you were only thinking of me when you said it? Because, if so, why didn’t you come after me? Why didn’t you call?”

“You left me, Sydney. No other woman has ever done so.”

She couldn’t believe what he was saying. And yet she could. Because Malik didn’t love her. His pride had been hurt, but not his heart. He was not about to come after her when it was a matter of pride alone. She bit her lip to stop the trembling. Damn him!

She shook her head again. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it? Even if we’d talked about it then, we’re still wrong for each other. It would have never worked out.” She swallowed. “A divorce is the right thing to do.”

“Maybe it is,” he agreed. “But the terms have changed.”

Her heart fell to her toes. “I don’t understand.”

He sat up, faced her. His voice, when he spoke, was firm. “If you want this divorce, you’re going to live with me as my wife.”

She couldn’t stop the gasp that caught in her throat. “That’s not what we agreed to back in California!”

“This is the desert,
habibti.
Conditions change. We either adapt or die.”

“But—but—this is blackmail,” she bit out, fury vibrating through her. How dare he change the terms mid-course!

“I am aware,” he said coolly. “But it is my price. If you don’t agree, you are free to leave. We will simply remain married for all eternity.”

Sydney struggled to calm her breathing. She was absolutely livid. And frightened.

“You would like that, I suppose.” It would forever keep him from his family’s matchmaking attempts, which he probably considered a good thing.

“Not particularly. It would require me to break our marriage vows since I refuse to spend the rest of my life celibate.”

Sydney snorted. “As if you haven’t done so already.” She’d read the papers, seen the pictures of him with other women. She was not so naive as to believe he’d spent the last year completely alone.

“Ah, yes,” he practically snarled. “Once more, you know me so well. You are quite an expert on my behavior. Whenever I am uncertain how to proceed, I should ask you in future. You will know unerringly what I should do.”

“Stop it!” The words tumbled from her, laced with bitterness and pain. “Don’t lie to me, Malik. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

He swore, long and violently, in Arabic. “What about the way you treat me? As if I have no honor, as if my word means nothing.”

“I didn’t say that!” He turned things around on her, made her feel wrong for saying such a thing—and yet she’d seen the papers, seen the pictures of him with other women. How could the evidence be wrong?

“But you did.” She could feel the anger vibrating from him, the indignation. A thread of doubt began to weave its way through her brain. “Do you know what I think,
habibti?
I think you are little more than a spoiled child. You refuse to deal with anything. You only wish to run away when life gets difficult.”

A sharp pain lodged in her breastbone. “That’s not true.”

But she feared it was. She’d grown so accustomed to hiding behind masks, to hiding who she was and what she wanted. It had been the only way to survive, to be like everyone else.

To make her parents proud.

She was afraid to say what she wanted, afraid she would be rejected or ridiculed.

He reached out, his fingertips sliding along her cheekbone. “You have to grow up sometime, Sydney. You have to face your fears.”

The lump in her throat was too big to swallow. “You’re trying to change the conversation. It was about you, about your women—”

His hand dropped away again. The air between them grew frosty. “Yes, of course. Now please tell me how many women I’ve had. I seem to have forgotten.”

His voice was tight with anger, but she refused to be intimidated. It felt wrong somehow to continue, and yet she blundered on. “There were pictures. You and Sofia de Santis, for one.”

“Sofia is genuinely beautiful. She is also engaged—to a woman.”

Sydney sucked in a breath, the fire of humiliation creeping up her neck. She was only glad it was dark and he couldn’t see. How had she missed the news that Sofia de Santis was a lesbian?

“What about the Countess Forbach? There were several pictures of you together.”

“No doubt because I attended many of her charity balls where I donated money to her causes. She is also, I must say, happily married to the count.”

“You have an answer for everything,” she said.

“And you have an objection.”

“You can’t really just expect me to believe everything I read was a lie—”

“Why not? Did any of these
news
articles appear in a real paper? Or were they splashed across the pages of the tabloids you grabbed at the checkout stand?”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, anger and fear overwhelming her. Because he made sense and she didn’t like it. Because if she believed what he said, she had to question everything about herself, about the way she’d run from Paris and hidden from the problem, convincing herself with each passing day that she had been right to go. “Why can’t we just do what we were doing, endure this forty days and be done? Why do you have to make it into something more just to torment me?”

He grabbed one of the pillows from beside her and punched it. She flinched in the darkness, but he only tossed it down and stretched out, tucking it beneath his head. “What good has maintaining the status quo gotten us so far? We live as man and wife, or you return to L.A. without your precious divorce.”

“That’s not much of a choice,” she whispered.

He yawned. “Nevertheless, it is the choice before you.”

She sat there, aching, not knowing what else to say, how else to convince him. How would she ever survive being his wife again? How would her heart survive? He would destroy her. Once more, the wave that was Malik was dragging her under.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” she finally said, needing to say something, needing to contradict him, if only for the time being.

His only answer was a soft snore.

Sydney reluctantly trudged to the couch and fell asleep. She didn’t want to leave the warm, soft bed—or the heat of the man beside her—but she felt as if she had to take a stand, no matter how temporary. But when she awoke the next morning, she was in the bed, snuggled beneath the covers—and Malik was gone.

It embarrassed her to think that he must have carried her there, and that she’d slept through the whole thing. How was that possible? But clearly it was.

She rose and went to wash in the bathing area, which was remarkably well-fitted for a desert tent, complete with a shower stall and solid surround, then dressed in a cool white
abaya
and sandals. The same girl from last night—Adara—brought her breakfast, which she ate in the living area while watching satellite television.

There was a news piece on a Hollywood couple, and she watched with interest as the familiar scenery of L.A. slid by. Remarkably, she didn’t feel homesick for it, though she did wish for her own apartment—her own things. She wondered what her parents were doing. They’d been happy when she’d told them she was going to Jahfar with Malik. Having a prince for a son-in-law was quite good for business, it seemed. She hadn’t the heart to tell them the truth.

She knew they would be disappointed in her when she returned alone, but the one thing about her family was they would never say so. In fact, they’d never said a word about her choices for as long as she could remember.

Unless it was a business decision, her parents said nothing. Her sister had always been her closest confidante—but Alicia had been tangled up with a new boyfriend for the past six months and was rarely available if she wasn’t at work. Sydney had wanted to talk to her sister about what spending time with Malik again would mean, but Alicia could never take her calls.

Jeffrey needed her, or Jeffrey had other plans. Alicia would say a hurried goodbye, and the phone would go dead. Though they worked in the same building, lunches were also out because Alicia spent them with Jeffrey.

Sydney had a sudden feeling she should call Alicia, but her cell phone didn’t work out here in this remote location. She would have to wait until Malik returned and ask him if there was a way to make a call. She assumed there had to be, since he had satellite television.

When she got bored of television, she ventured outside. The heat was staggering. She pulled the head covering tighter and walked toward the gleaming pool in the center of the oasis. The oasis seemed empty, but she knew it was not. The black tents of the Bedu were still erected on one end of the area, and occasionally she saw movement as a child darted outside and back in again.

Sydney skirted the far edge of the pool, intending to walk all the way around. It wasn’t far, but at least it was a bit of exercise. A group of camels lay beneath the palms, tethered to a line, watching her progress while they chewed their cud.

At some point, she realized it was getting harder to breathe. She sucked in air that nearly scorched her lungs. Sweat trickled between her breasts. Her throat seemed to close against the heat, quickly devoid of all moisture. Finally, she stumbled to the foot of a palm and sank to the ground.

She put a hand over her stomach. It was beginning to ache, and her head felt fuzzy.

A few moments later a noise grabbed her attention and she looked up again. A horse and rider blotted out the sun. The horse was dark, brown or black, and finely made. Its nostrils flared wide, and red tassels dripped from its breastplate and bridle. One hoof pawed the ground impatiently. The rider, clad from head to toe in black, separated from the horse and sprang to the ground beside her.

“Sydney.” The word was muffled behind the black fabric wrapped over his face. But the eyes …

“Hello, Malik,” she said. “I was taking a walk.”

Malik swore. And then he swept her into his arms and strode toward the tent. She expected he would set her down on the couch, get cool water for her, but he carried her through the tent and into the small bathing area. Once there, he turned on the water and pushed her under it fully clothed.

Sydney gasped as cold water rushed over her, soaking her to the bone. “What are you doing?”

He ripped away his face covering. “The heat is too dangerous. You should never have gone out in it.”