Marc couldn't stand to see this proud woman so humbled. This was not how his haughty beauty was meant to sound, lost and alone. Striding to the bed, he sat down beside her. When he reached out to touch her cheek, she froze. "I have no intention of doing anything against your will, so stop looking like a deer caught in the headlights."
Her head jerked up. "Don't snap at me like that."
This was the woman he'd fallen for—this woman of fire not ice. Desire flared again, deep and heavy. Without conscious intent, his fingers trailed down her face to rest on the delicate skin of her neck. She shivered at his touch, and hope blazed inside him. Driven by dreams he'd never thought to experience, he found himself leaning forward to taste her.
Harsh reality intruded when she turned her head away in sharp refusal, giving him her profile.
He dropped his hand and got off the bed. Walking to the door, he tried to tell himself it didn't matter that she'd rejected him. "Do you even desire me, Hira?" It was a question without subtlety, but he needed the truth, and from the lush look of her and her confession of involvement with another man, he knew she had to be experienced.
He hated the idea of those long, sun-kissed limbs intertwined with another man's, though he'd never been a man who judged a woman on her sexual history. He was no hypocrite. Except, it appeared, with this woman. Tonight had been full of unwelcome surprises.
Eyes wide, his new wife looked up from her intense perusal of the white-on-white embroidered bedspread, her fingers crushing a single fragile petal. The sweet scent of roses shimmered into the air. "All you know of me is my face and my body—there is nothing more to tie us together. I don't believe in lying with a man unless there is emotion between us." Her voice almost trembled at the end.
And she'd said she would never love again. The pain in his chest was nearly overwhelming. “You expect me not to touch you all our married life?" He wanted to be very sure of her meaning, very sure of what he'd surrendered to his inexplicable but raging need to possess the woman he'd glimpsed by the light of a delicate sickle moon.
She continued to crush rose petals in her elegant fingers. "My father had another woman always. Can American men not do the same?"
He rocked back on his heels. "Is keeping a mistress common in Zulheil?" He'd thought that this was a land of honor and integrity, a land where a man could find a woman who'd be loyal as well as beautiful, a woman who could find beauty in the night sky and in a scarred man's face.
"No." Hira's acknowledgment only gave him a moment's relief. "It's considered dishonorable, and most of our women will not stand for it. If they cannot fight for their right to be honored as a wife, their clan will fight for them, even if that means dissolving the marriage." Her eyes met his, fierce in defense of her country.
Yet when she smiled, it was a parody of beauty. "But it's done in my family. My mother's clan does not help her because she does not ask. My father has her well under his thumb. He only lay with her long enough to gain heirs—my two brothers. You can do the same." Ice coated every word.
It was a blow to the most masculine core of him. "You obviously have no desire to be with child." He ran his eyes down her perfect form, something she'd hate to lose to a belly swollen with his child.
What a fool he'd been. Even after his long-ago emotional mauling at Lydia's hands, he'd married a beauty thinking that something far more precious, something the lost boy from the bayou had been searching for all his life, was hidden beneath the outer layer. Instead he'd gotten exactly what he deserved. "Don't worry. I won't need heirs for a while."
Turning, he tugged open the door with unnecessary force. He was so disgusted with his own folly that he didn't trust himself in the same room as her. Or perhaps it wasn't his anger he was afraid of but the dangerous sliver of hope that continued to dig into his heart, insistent that he fight for his wife. That sliver wouldn't let him end this marriage, not until he'd discovered the truth about the woman he'd married.
Who was the real Hira? An icy sophisticate or a warm-hearted innocent who'd once looked at him with shy welcome in her eyes?
Hira stared after her husband, her stomach in knots, her uncaring mask threatening to crack at any moment. The instant his footsteps faded, she jumped up and locked the door with trembling fingers, almost blinded by the light reflected off the diamond bracelets around her wrists.
Only when the bolt slid home did she crumple to the floor, stuffing her knuckles into her mouth to muffle her sobs. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't bother to wipe them. Who was there to see if beautiful Hira Dazirah looked less than perfect?
You obviously have no desire to be with child.
Marc's—her husband's—disgusted pronouncement ran through her mind over and over. Like every other man before him he'd wanted her for her body and yet he blamed her for it. Even worse, he blamed her for something that was untrue.
She'd once dreamed of having as many children as her body would allow, with a husband she'd love. A husband who'd love her back. Those thoughts had belonged to a young girl full of hope and joy, a girl long since buried under the pain of a heart crushed so completely she wasn't sure if it would ever heal.
Her experience at Romaz's hands had left her easy prey for her father's machinations. Kerim had used her sense of family honor to get her to marry, saying that they couldn't afford to have Marc renege on the deal. From what her new husband had said, clearly it had been Kerim who'd pushed for marriage, not Marc. Her father no doubt believed that Marc would favor family in matters of business; Hira already knew that the man she'd married would never succumb to such manipulation.
Kerim's lies had achieved no purpose but to bind her to a man who didn't want her now that he had her. She wasn't even to have the comfort of thinking he'd fallen for her with one glance.
So why had Marc acquiesced to her father's wishes? Only one answer came to her—he wished to own her. It didn't matter to him what kind of woman she was, whether she had a good heart or mind. He'd seen the outer package and liked it enough to go along with Kerim's demands.
Her father had sold her to cement an alliance, and Marc had bought her because he liked the look of her.
Between them, they'd reduced her worth from woman to chattel. She wasn't surprised at her father's actions. No, it was Marc whom she was angry at. Marc who'd betrayed the awakening thing between them by marrying her without courtship or romance. According to all she knew, he hadn't even tried to get around Kerim's orders.
There had been more than simple desire between them the night they'd first met, but with his act, Marc had crushed that wild and tender emotion.
Two
Hira woke later than usual, courtesy of slumber riddled with nightmares. Dressing quickly after a hurried shower, she girded herself to go down and face her husband's temper, for what man wouldn't hate the woman who'd denied him their marriage bed?
It had been a shameful thing for her to do, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it. An emotionless coupling with a man she'd barely spoken to would've made a mockery of all her beliefs about the meaning of the most intimate act between a man and a woman.
Even though the man she'd denied made her body heavy with desire so hot and blinding, it rocked the foundations of her understanding about her own heart.
Shivers raced up her spine at that traitorous thought. Blinking furiously, she fought them off, though she knew that this blazing heat wouldn't disappear so easily. Not when she was wife to die man who was the cause of her confusion.
Expecting a fight, she set her jaw and forced herself to leave her room. But what she found on the lower floor was far more unsettling than an angry husband. Suitcases lined the hallway, several of them hers.
Shaken, she walked into the living room and saw Marc bent over a table, signing something. "We are leaving?"
His dark-brown hair gleamed in the sunlight angling through the windows as he glanced at her before turning back to his papers. "Yes. In an hou
r." With strong strokes, he signed his name on another line.
Inordinately crushed by his dismissive attitude, she managed to ask, "Where?"
"My home. Louisiana. Near Lafayette." His words were curt, holding no welcome.
She thought for a moment. "That state has much water but also pra.. .prairies and its borders touch the Gulf of Mexico. Lafayette is near Baton Red... No, Baton Rouge. It is sometimes called Cajun Country, is it not?"
The man she was joined to was staring at her. "What, you read encyclopedias in your spare time?"
Since that was exactly what she did, she scowled at his sarcastic tone. "They are very informative." And she was starved for information.
Her father didn't believe in higher education for females, but she'd managed to educate herself, first through books and later through clandestine use of the Internet-linked computer in the study. As a teenager, she'd railed against the unfairness of being denied the educational opportunities lavished on her two uninterested brothers, but had soon realized the futility of her pleas.
"What's your favorite subject?" It was the lack of sarcasm in Marc's question that startled her out of her dark mood.
"You're not making fun of me?" She didn't understand his curiosity. Her husband was not reacting as she'd expected. Instead of nursing his anger over their disastrous wedding night, he appeared to be trying to facilitate a conversation between them.
Those piercing eyes seemed to narrow. "No."
"Well then. It is economics, theories of management, things such as that." Aware that it wasn't a feminine type of subject, she stared right back at him, defiant.
"Sure, princess. I believe you." He appeared to be fighting a smile.
Suddenly her frustration erupted. "How dare you... what is your word.. .patronize me? You see only what you think to see. You cannot recognize what is beneath the surface for you are a man who buys only on outward appearance!" She turned on her heel, the wind generated by her dark skirts buzzing angrily around her legs. "I will be ready to leave within the hour."
His arrogance made her angry, but beneath the anger the broken edges of lost dreams rubbed her raw with pain.
Despite everything, she'd dared to dream that her American husband would be a man who'd allow her to spread her wings and fly. That hope was now forever lost.
He was just like her father, intent on caging her in the box he'd set aside for her in his mind. She'd fallen for his slow, seductive smile—so rare on that brutally masculine face... a warrior's face—forgetting that being akin to a warrior was no guard against male failings.
Marc frowned as he watched his wife storm out of the room, as regal as a true princess. He'd learned long ago that appearances counted for nothing. Had he committed the cardinal sin and judged his wife on her beautiful face rather than what lay within?
It took him only a minute to discard that idea. If she was so damn smart, what was she doing living in her father's home, on his charity? Zulheil wasn't a restrictionist culture. Sure, the women were well protected and cherished, but they were allowed the same opportunities as their male counterparts.
If nothing else, Hira could've gained the money she needed for study by joining the modeling world. The minute she walked into an agency, the bookers would've crawled on their hands and knees to sign her up. One of his best friends had clawed her way out of poverty using her face, and he respected her for it.
Snorting at almost falling for his spoiled new wife's tricks, he continued to sign papers relating to a minor outstanding matter. He'd have to return to Zulheil in a month or so for a further set of negotiations, but right now he was needed in Louisiana.
Truth to tell, he missed his watery homeland. All this stunning golden desert and too-blue sky could get wearing on a matt used to humidity and mosquitoes and the occasional gator.
Hira didn't speak to Marc again until they were winging their way through the clouds, seated side by side in the first-class cabin of a commercial jetliner. Having never flown before, she was feeling more than a little lost and wished Marc would talk to her instead of working on his documents. He might be stubborn and inclined to snap, but at least she knew him. All these other people were strangers, even the flight attendants who smiled at her so nicely but whose eyes were cold.
They thought her nothing but a pretty face, a rich man's newest toy. Marc's dismissive attitude toward her had undoubtedly strengthened that belief. Her anger at the way she was always labeled without being given a chance was a pulsing wound inside her, a wound that grew each time she tried to protect herself by showing a cold face instead of shattering with rage.
Even the times when she'd broken down and cried, she'd done so in the dead of night, in silence. Who could she tell? Who wouldn't laugh at her and call her a "poor little rich girl," as if her looks and her father's wealth meant that she was never to be accorded any real sympathy?
Yet all her life, how she'd envied those plain girls who were adored by their husbands for their laughter and their wit; girls who would never have to worry about being forgotten once their skin wrinkled and their bodies changed. Girls who could joyfully confess to gaining a few pounds, safe in the knowledge that in their husbands' eyes they'd remain forever beautiful.
Despair and hurt tangled inside her soul, making her want to scream and cry at the same time. But she did neither. She'd been brought up to be the perfect daughter and the perfect wife. Seen, not heard. Never heard.
The blond flight attendant passed by again, giving Marc a subtly interested glance. He didn't look up. At least he wouldn't humiliate her by openly flirting with other women, though it was likely that many would throw out lures.
He wasn't a man who could be described as handsome, but there was something compelling about him. Power and strength, buried passion, depths without end—he had the kind of charisma women found irresistible. She'd been pressured into marrying him, but in the privacy of her mind, she admitted that he was a man who made her blush with impure thoughts.
The first time she'd seen him, he hadn't been aware of her scrutiny. She'd been standing in a hidden alcove on the upper floor of their home, looking down onto the banquet hall to check that everything was in order. Barely after she'd arrived, her eyes had landed on Marc, drawn by his magnetic presence.
He'd been standing alone in one corner, his determined and ruthless nature stamped on his features. She didn't fear ruthlessness—all the truly strong males she knew had that element in their makeup. It was part of what made them the powerful men they were.
When he'd moved, she'd imagined him as the most predatory of hunters, all dangerous grace and barely contained power. Her eyes had followed him across the room, unable to drag themselves away. Disturbingly, he'd paused midstep and looked right up at the alcove, as if he'd known she was watching.
Shaking from the impact of those ice-gray eyes, she'd retreated with her hand pressed over the thundering beat of her heart. It had taken her half an hour to calm down enough to finally join the banquet.. .where Marc had smiled that slow, secret smile at her and turned her whole world inside out.
In short, her husband was a very sexy man.
But even concentrating on Marc's undeniable sexual allure wasn't alleviating her fear. Aware that she couldn't expect sympathy from the man she'd frozen out of their marriage bed, she forced herself to reach for a magazine.
Moments later she watched in dismay as the glossy paper slid out from between fingers numbed by the desperate way she'd gripped the armrests.
Without saying a word, Marc put down his pen and picked up the magazine, placing it atop his papers. Eyes wide, she waited. Before she could ask for its return, he reached over and closed one big hand around her trembling fingers. She froze.
Nalini Singh - Craving Beauty.htm Page 2