The Sheikh's Wife

by Jane Porter

  Bryn looked at Kahlil, gaze level, mouth smiling faintly. “Is there something criminal in wanting to walk?”

  “You never liked to walk before.”

  “Of course not. I was eighteen. I preferred motorbikes and race cars and anything else that jolted my heart.” Like you, she thought cynically. You jolted my heart a thousand times a day.

  Kahlil gave the driver directions to a popular downtown park, the night quiet, the streets nearly deserted. The limousine pulled over to the curb and Kahlil and Bryn got out, to stoically circle the square.

  The evening, balmy for late September, smelled sweeter than usual, the peculiar ripe fragrance of turning leaves as summer slipped away, fading into fall.

  He didn’t speak. She didn’t try, chewing her lower lip, struggling to come up with an alternative to Kahlil’s proposal, one that might meet his need for vengeance without endangering Ben. But no solutions came to mind, immediately dismissing lawsuits and threats, as well as fleeing with Ben. This time Kahlil wouldn’t let her go. He’d find her, and he’d really want blood then.

  They passed the fountain and large bronze statue twice with Bryn still overwhelmed with worry.

  Kahlil thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “There’s no way out,” he said mildly, casting a curious side glance her way. “You’re not going to escape without settling the score.”

  A flurry of nerves made her prickle from head to toe. How could he know exactly what she was thinking? “Score. Proposition. You’re trying to humiliate me.”

  “Clever girl.” He stopped walking, facing her, his dark features mocking. “You humiliated me before my family and my people. You’re fortunate that your humiliation will be much more…private.”

  “What makes you think I’d agree to this plan?”

  “You were once quite daring. You hungered for adventure, for travel and the unknown. Is the great unknown no longer appealing?”

  No. Not since becoming a mother. She worried constantly about Ben. His safety, his security, his future. And since becoming a mother, she wondered how her own parents could have dragged her through the Middle East as a small child, living out of tents and the camper van, sleeping at desolate spots along the road. They’d led a precarious life and it had cost them all. Dearly.

  Pain suffused her, time and grief blurring her parents’ faces. She remembered them better by photograph than be special memories. “I prefer things simple now,” she answered faintly. “My relationships uncomplicated.”

  “Like Stan?”

  Her eyes flashed warning. “Leave him out of this.”

  “How can I? He’s the enemy.”

  “Stan is not the enemy. You’re the enemy.”

  He laughed, the husky sound carrying in the darkness. “Four days. Four days and you’d be free. You could marry Stan. Have a family. Get on with your life.”

  Oh, how like Kahlil, how clever, how manipulative. Trust the devil to suggest temptation.

  But the devil knew her, she acknowledged weakly. He knew how she’d reached for him, again and again, undone by the pleasure of their bodies, so inexperienced that she couldn’t be satiated, her untutored desires wanting more.

  But that wasn’t the kind of relationship she had with Stan. Her fault, she knew, but despite her gratitude to Stan, she didn’t enjoy it when he touched her. She told herself that her feelings would change after their wedding, but would they? Could they?

  Warily she glanced at Kahlil. Moonlight illuminated his profile. If she did go with him, if she did all that he asked, would he really set her free? Could she trust him to honor his word?

  “You can’t pick the city,” she said, feeling trapped, the air squeezing out of her lungs. She wouldn’t breathe until she was free of him. “Four days, three nights. I pick the place, the city and the hotel.”

  “The city and the hotel? Now you’re sounding paranoid.”

  She refused to be baited, too busy examining the proposal from every angle. A couple of nights with him in New York. How bad could it be? She’d do what he asked and then she’d have her divorce. “New York,” she said. “The Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”

  “Paris. The Ritz-Carlton.”

  “I won’t leave the States.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “No.” She lifted her chin. “As it is you act as judge, jury and executioner. It hardly seems fair.”

  He laughed without kindness. “I guess you’d have to work very very hard at pleasing me.”

  Seething, she returned to the limousine, realizing she was only wasting time—his, hers and Ben’s. Kahlil might look like a modern man with his expensive clothes and gorgeous face, but his thinking was still feudal.

  The limousine drew to a stop before her house and Kahlil’s driver opened the back door. But before she could move, Kahlil clasped her elbow.

  “It might not be safe going with me,” he said softly, “but it might also be the smartest thing you’ve ever done. Everything in life is a risk. Even your freedom.”

  She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

  Lightly he stroked her bare arm, his touch sending shock waves through her body. “The weekend wouldn’t be without its rewards,” he continued. “You burn for me. You’re on fire now.”

  She stared at her arm in mute fascination. She did feel feverish, her skin blazing, her body melting, everything in her coming alive in response to him. He’d always made her feel like this, crazy with need. Right now her nerves throbbed, her pulse racing. He was a drug, sweetly addictive, dangerously destructive, utterly transforming. In his bed, in his arms, she would do anything for him.

  Leave her home, change her name, worship at his feet. She lost control when it came to him and that loss of control completely shamed her.

  She breathed deeply, dizzy, torn between wildly opposing desires. Run. Stay. Scream. Kiss.

  If she went with him, she’d enjoy Kahlil’s revenge. She’d welcome the humiliation as it would be at his hands, in his hands, with his body.

  A woman should have more self-respect. She had none.

  She could feel the press of his thigh against hers, his hips close, his warmth stealing into her. He promised intense sensual pleasure, a pleasure she’d only ever known with him.

  Color banded in high hot waves across her cheekbones. Closing her eyes, she swayed, drawn to him.

  He held her in his power again.

  Stop it.

  Wake up. You can’t do this. Think about Ben. Think about the dangers in the palace. At the very least, think about Amin.

  Her eyes opened, her lips parted, and reality returned. “I can’t do it, Kahlil. I won’t. We need to make a clean break of it.” Was that her voice? High? Thin? Panicked?”

  “Clean break,” he mocked. “Hardly, darling. You’d remain my wife.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Life’s not fair.”

  She averted her face, struggling to hide the tumultuous emotions from him. She was angry, aroused, torn. If she didn’t go away with him, Kahlil would discover Ben. But spending a weekend with Kahlil was like throwing herself in the mouth of a volcano.

  It was Ben’s future, or hers.

  Ben’s or hers.

  Ben won. “No other man would force a woman to submit,” she said bitterly, unable to hide her anger or despair. He’d never planned on releasing her from their marriage vows. He’d given her time but not forgiveness. Space but not freedom. And without a divorce she could permanently lose Ben.

  Kahlil didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew he wasn’t just any man. He was a sheikh, his word in his country was law.

  Eyes gritty and hot, she drew a short breath. “God, I hate you.”

  “I don’t care. I want what’s mine. And you, wife, are mine.”

  He was going to kiss her. She knew it, felt it, just before his head dropped. Alarm shrieked through her, alarm because in his arms she was weak, so weak, it made her sick.

  She tried to slip away but Kahlil m
oved even faster. He blocked the door and leveraged her backward, her spine pressed to the leather seat. “You can’t escape me,” he murmured, his voice husky as his palm slid down her throat, spanning the column, forming a collar with his hand. “But then, I don’t think you really want to.” And with that, his head dropped, his mouth covering hers.

  His warmth caught her unawares, his skin fragrant, a soft subtle sweet spice she couldn’t place, but a fragrance that had been part of him as long as she’d known him. The very first time they’d touched she’d breathed him in, again and again, heart racing, spectacular colors and visions filling her head. She saw the full white moon above the bleached ivory sands, the grove of orange trees planted within the village walls, the warmth of the night in the darkest hour…

  Kahlil.

  Her lashes closed, lips parting beneath the pressure of his, welcoming him, the sweetness and the strength, the memory of their lives. She’d loved him, oh God, she’d loved him, and he’d filled her, capturing her heart and mind and soul.

  Kahlil.

  His tongue traced the inside of her lip, sending rivulets of feeling in her mouth, her belly, between her thighs. She tensed at the quicksilver sensation, the warmth, first hot then turning icy as he flicked his tongue across her lip again.

  Helplessly she clasped his shirt, holding on to him tightly as shudders coursed down her spine. He felt so familiar, wonderfully warm, hard, real. For months she’d wept at night missing him, missing his skin, his scent, his passion for her, for their brief bittersweet year together.

  The shiny green leaf of citrus, the spice of cardamom, the tangy essence of lemon…Kahlil…and her body warmed, softening for him, responding, ignoring the revolt of her mind, refusing to remember anyone or anything but the pleasure of being in his arms.

  His hand slid from her throat to her breast, his touch igniting fire beneath her skin. Shuddering, she curved more closely against him, seeking more contact, more of his strength.

  “Tell me,” his voice rasped, “is this how you respond to Stan, too?”

  Bryn felt ice invade her limbs. Stiffening in horror, she pushed frantically at his chest, desperate to escape.

  Kahlil laughed deep in his throat. “Oh, don’t stop making love to me, darling. I’m really rather aroused.”

  Disgust, remorse, hurt shot through her like sharp arrows, piercing her conscience, reminding her who Kahlil really was. A savage. A savage from a savage land. Hurt turned to anger, the emotion blistering, and her arm swung up, fingers flexing, palm wide. She caught him square on the cheek, the slap echoing shockingly loud in the silent car.

  He didn’t move, but she could hear the ring of her hand against his cheek, hear it play again and again in her head. My God, what had she done? How could she have hit him of all people? “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t speak and she sat frozen on the seat, fingers pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Sick at heart, she stared at his cheek, seeing through the shadows the reddened area of his skin.

  “Twice tonight you’ve lifted your hand against me, once you actually made contact.” He spoke without a hint of emotion in his husky voice. “This is not a good habit.”

  She ought to apologize again but couldn’t speak, too many powerful emotions swirling within her. She wanted him and hated him. Craved his touch yet longed to wound him. It was madness. Being near him was madness. How could she ever escape him again?

  “This habit must be quickly broken. Do you understand, Princess al-Assad?”

  “Don’t call me Princess. I’m not a princess.”

  “But you are. And as long as you are my wife, you are entitled to my name, my fortune, my protection.”

  “No—”

  “You can’t escape it. Marrying me has changed your life.” His gaze found hers, light and shadow playing across his granitelike features, even as he stepped from the car, and taking her hand in his, drew her out after him. “Forever.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE phone was ringing inside the house. Bryn could hear it from the walkway and climbed the porch steps quickly, struggling to get the house key into the lock, but her hands shook so badly she couldn’t connect.

  “Need help?” Kahlil drawled, a taunt in his voice.

  “No.”

  The phone continued to ring, the persistence of the caller creating fresh worry. What if it was Mrs. Taylor? What if something happened to Ben? Anxiously she jammed the key into the dead bolt and gave it a fierce turn. The lock gave way and she stepped inside even as the phone stopped ringing.

  Kahlil must have heard the frustration in her sigh because as he brushed past her, he touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “If it’s important, love, he’ll call back.”

  Kahlil left her to wander the house, moving from the narrow dark hall into her tiny kitchen. It infuriated her that he walked right in without invitation. She followed him into the kitchen where he sucked up air and space, reducing the cramped area to nothing more than a shoe-box.

  Spine rigid, Bryn watched his critical gaze examine the chipped painted cupboards and worn beige linoleum. She could tell he’d missed nothing, not even the limp dish towels hanging from the chrome bar.

  “If you needed cash, you should have told me,” he said at last, turning to face her, arms crossed over his chest. His folded arms accented the width of his shoulders, the tug of fabric outlined his strong biceps. Kahlil had always been built big, all hard, carved muscle, imposing even by American standards.

  She drew a short, sharp breath, her head hurting, her heart hurting again. She wouldn’t let him do this, wouldn’t let his wealth change her feelings. This house had been home to every good memory of her life with Ben. All those wonderful firsts…his first smile, first tooth, first step, first word. Baby powder and lullabies. Mashed peas and sweet gummy kisses. A cocoon she’d spun around them, safe, fragile, wonderful. Their world had sustained her. Until now.

  “I don’t need your money.” She choked. “I like my home. It’s cozy.”

  “Cozy’s quaint. This is decrepit.”

  She pressed her lips together, fighting tears of shame. Of course he’d sneer at her secondhand furniture. In Sheikh al-Assad’s world, everything was the best. The best cars. The best furniture. The best jewelry. But she couldn’t afford luxuries. She could barely pay her rent every month. But Ben was healthy and happy and she wouldn’t trade his security for all the luxuries in the world. “I never asked you in. If you’re not comfortable, see yourself out. You know where the door is.”

  “And what? Deprive myself of you? Oh, no, I’m staying.” He leaned against one laminated counter, relaxed, smiling. “However, for a Southerner, your hospitality is shocking. The proper thing would be to offer your guest some refreshment.”

  She had an hour left to get rid of him, an hour before Mrs. Taylor returned with Ben. “It’s late, Kahlil.”

  “Yes, and a cup of coffee would be lovely. Thank you.”

  Her head began to ache, a low throbbing pain that dulled her senses. What point was there in arguing with him? He was deaf when he wanted to be, blind when he found it convenient. Which is what had drove them apart in Tiva. Kahlil immersed in palace affairs. Bryn lost and alone. She’d tried talking to him then, but he hadn’t heard her, just as he wasn’t listening now.

  Wearily she put the kettle on the stove, still making coffee the way Kahlil had taught her, French-press style, stronger, darker, richer than American brewed coffee. Some habits, she noted dryly, were hard to break.

  “As cozy as you find your house, I think we could do better for you.” Kahlil’s voice, emotionless, echoed in the close quarters. “You need something more appropriate for your position. I’ll hire you a housekeeper. A driver. Bodyguards.”

  She didn’t even turn around. “I don’t need bodyguards, or a driver. And I may be poor but I’m an excellent housekeeper. You won’t find a bit of dust anywhere.”

  “Just wanted to make things easier for you.”

&nb
sp; “A divorce would make things easier. A housekeeper would merely be a nuisance.”

  “Don’t think about the money—”

  “I’m not,” she interrupted curtly, gripping the quilted potholder between her hands. She was thinking of Ben, worrying about him, seeing the danger she’d unwittingly thrust him in. “You can’t do this. You can’t take over my life.”

  “I have valid concerns about your safety.”

  Just then the telephone rang again. Bryn tensed, shoulders knotting. Her skin prickled with dread. She didn’t want to answer the phone, but couldn’t ignore it, either.

  Kahlil read her indecision. “Let it ring,” he commanded, authoritative as ever. “It doesn’t concern us.”

  Even from where he stood, she could feel him, catch a whiff of his cologne. Musky, rich, reminiscent of the East with cardamom, citrus, spice. It made her picture him naked in the silk sheets of his opulent bed, bronze skin covering sinewy muscle. He was built like a god. He made love like a god. She’d worshiped him.

  Then he fell from the pedestal and nothing had ever been the same between them again, leaving her vulnerable to Amin’s dangerous games.

  The phone rang again. Four times. Five.

  She moved to answer it but Kahlil stopped her, his hands coming down to rest on her shoulders. “Leave the phone. Listen to what I’m saying.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can. You must. You’ve kept me waiting three years. I think you owe me five minutes of your undivided attention.”

  But she was listening to the phone, silently counting the rings. Five, six, seven. “Please, Kahlil.”

  “No.”

  She closed her eyes, her body trembling, her heart barely beating. Eight, nine. And then it stopped. The phone went dead.

  Brilliant red-hot pain consumed her even as she had a terrifying vision of the future, a future far from her home in Texas, a future of blistering sands and dark veils covering her from head to toe.

  “You do not own me, Sheikh al-Assad, and you will not put me in another prison!” she raged, her fury not just at him, but against his family, his customs, his inability to see her as anything but an extension of him.