by Jane Porter
“The palace was never a prison!”
“It felt like one. You left me there alone, trapped in the harem.”
“You knew in advance the wives eat, sleep, socialize in their own quarters. You were raised in the Middle East. You knew our customs.”
“But I married you. I expected to be with you.”
“And you were, at night. I had you brought to me most evenings, if I wasn’t away on business, or obligated to entertain.” He drew a deep breath, his composure also shaken. He pressed knuckles to his temple, his jaw rock-hard. “Regardless of your feelings about the palace, we can’t afford to take chances with your safety. The problem with being a princess worth millions—billions of dollars—is that people will come at you from every direction.”
“No one even knows I’m your wife!”
“They will.”
The assurance in his voice sent shivers down her spine. They will because he’d make sure people knew she belonged to him, he’d make sure no one like Stan could ever grow fond of her, make sure she remained alone in the ivory tower. “You’ll make me a prisoner in my own home.”
“The price we pay for being rich.”
Tears filled her eyes, and she averted her head.
“Your parents were killed by extremists,” he continued more softly. “You, of all people, should know that the world is dangerous.”
“And I’ve chosen to live without fear.” Once she left Zwar she turned her back on exotic locales and wild adventure. No more nomadic travels. No more yearning for far-off places. Her parents’ instability had destroyed their family. She wouldn’t do that to Ben.
“I will not become someone else just to give you peace of mind,” she added hoarsely, unwilling to remember the bomb blast at the marketplace or the horror of her parents’ death. She’d been sent to Aunt Rose in Dallas, and Rose had been wonderful. Thank God for her aunt’s warmth and support.
She felt rather than heard Kahlil move behind her. He walked quietly, stealthily, like a big cat. Beautiful and oh, so lethal.
“And I will not let a hair on your head be harmed,” he murmured, reaching out and drawing her toward him.
She tensed and he kissed the back of her neck.
His lips against her skin, and it was the most amazing pleasure she could imagine.
A shudder raced through her, nipples hardening, heat filling her belly. Just a kiss and she wanted him. Just a touch and she started to melt.
Her nerves screamed. Hot tears stung her closed eyes. She wanted to feel his hand on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.
Slowly he plucked the tortoiseshell pins from her coiled hair, combing the long tangled strands smooth. “Not a hair,” he repeated, lifting the light gold strands, fingers caressing the silky length. “Despite everything, I still want you, I still want to love your body.”
“No.” It was a desperate denial, her lips twisting as shudders of feeling traveled the length of her spine. She felt warm where she’d been cold. Soft where she ought to be hard. Resist him. Resist him!
“Yes. And I forgive you,” he added, kissing her nape again, creating fresh pleasure, more intense sensation. His hands slid to her shoulders. He held her securely. “I forgive you and want only to have you home again.”
His words cut her, deep stabbing wounds, reminding her of the secret she’d worked so hard to keep from him. She’d spent the last three years denying she’d ever been part of him, ignoring that her child, their child…
But his home would never be her home, not after what Amin had done. Not after what she had done.
Kahlil’s lips moved across her nape and Bryn closed her eyes, head falling forward, caught up in the rawness of her emotions. Need flamed inside her, need to be held, touched, loved. Stan cared for her but it had never felt like this. Never had the power, or the passion.
The old kettle began to boil, the little cap whistling softly. “We have to move on,” she choked, the air aching inside her lungs, her heart as fragile as a delicate glass ornament. Remembering the damage Amin had done, Kahlil would never forgive her betrayal, never understood why she turned to his cousin. “I need to put the past behind. I need to go forward.”
The teakettle’s whistle grew louder. “But I cannot.”
“Why not? You’re one of the most accomplished, educated men in the Middle East. You hold degrees from Oxford and Harvard—”
He reached past her, moved the kettle from the burner, silencing the shrill whistle. “I might have been educated in the West, but my pride, is Arabic. I am Arabic. And my pride demands justice. An eye for an eye…a tooth for a tooth…”
“A humiliation for a humiliation,” she added, turning slowly, helplessly, toward him.
“Exactly.”
“So until I go with you on this weekend, I will never be free.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Kahlil watched her eyes widen, the blue irises flecked with bright bits of purple and black. Anger and defiance burned in her eyes, turning the color to glowing sapphires, rich, rare, prized.
“You aren’t really giving me a choice then, are you?” she demanded.
He checked the smile that curled the corners of his mouth. She looked the picture of injured innocence, eyes bright, full soft lips trembling. Oh, but didn’t he know that expression? And hadn’t he heard that same inflection play through his head at least a thousand times since the night she’d left him?
He found it ironic, too, that even angry, she was still prettier than a poster girl, her face all heart-shaped sweetness, her creamy skin framed by silky hair the color of citron and sunshine. He had always loved her hair, loved to run his hands through the softness and the hundred different shades of gold spill through his fingers.
He’d been furious when Amin told him about Bryn’s wedding. He couldn’t believe she dared to marry another man. His anger burned so hotly that he’d feared what he’d do when he arrived at her house, but when she opened the door, the violence in his heart faded, leaving only resolve. She was his. She would go home with him.
“Of course you have a choice. You can be mine, completely, for four nights, or you can be mine, in name, for the rest of your life. It’s entirely up to you.”
The choice obviously horrified her, and for a moment he felt almost sympathy, until he remembered how she’d walked out on him, no apology, no attempt to reconcile, nothing. She vowed to love him and she broke that vow, in less than a year.
It was time she learned the importance of a promise. In Zwar, one’s life depended on one’s word.
She moved away from him, filling the French press with boiling water, tightening the top, pushing the coffee through the fine grounds. He watched her hands, watched the concentration on her face.
She handed him his cup, careful to avoid touching him. “How did you know I was getting married?”
“Amin told me.” He lifted his cup to his mouth, sipped the strong black liquid, noting the flicker in her eyes and the sudden press of her lips. “Your hatred for my cousin is unacceptable, and undeserved. No one has supported you more than he.”
“I can imagine.”
“You doubt me?”
“I doubt him.” Her voice was as brittle as a branch encased in ice. “How did he find out about the wedding?”
Kahlil shrugged. “He spotted your announcement on the Internet while reading a Dallas paper.”
“Don’t you find that rather coincidental? Amin reading a Dallas newspaper on the Internet? Why should he care about Dallas news?”
“I have investments here. Manufacturers. Oil refineries.” He watched her struggle to control her temper and he frowned. “You scorn his loyalty, but he’s been more faithful than you, my young wife.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to indict Amin, to blurt the terrible truth about Kahlil’s favorite cousin, but before she could speak she heard a car pull up outside, parking next to her house.
Goose bumps peppered her flesh. It couldn’t
be Mrs. Taylor back already, could it?
She was moving for the door, practically running. She heard Kahlil speak, something about her decision and had she made a choice, but she didn’t answer, dread, fear, panic consuming her.
From the front door Bryn caught a glimpse of a truck parked at her curb. Mrs. Taylor’s old Ford pickup. And next to Mrs. Taylor she spotted a small dark head. Ben.
That was the phone call. Mrs. Taylor had been ringing to let Bryn know she’d be returning Ben early. And here she was, bringing Benjamin home at the absolute worst possible time, straight into the arms of his father.
“Friends?” Kahlil asked, appearing behind her. She couldn’t see his face but she felt his tension, his gaze focused on the truck parked outside and the passengers within.
She couldn’t have answered him if her life depended on it.
The truck door opened and a child tumbled out dressed in jeans, T-shirt, white sneakers.
She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stay in place. She was out the door and down the front steps, running toward the truck, her eyes only on Ben. Her heart felt like a mashed plum, pulpy and bruised. As she reached her son, swinging him up into her arms, she knew she’d lost.
She couldn’t do anything right. Couldn’t even protect Ben when she needed to most.
Cold from head to toe, Bryn began to tremble. Her arms felt like matchsticks. Her legs like feather pillows. Sinking to the ground, she collapsed onto the rough asphalt. It was over. The hiding, the running, the pretending. It was over.
She hugged Ben hard, needing him, fearing for him. Every choice in her life, every mistake she’d made, had come to this.
Kahlil’s footsteps sounded behind her. The leather heels of his shoes echoing too loudly on the cracked cement walk.
Bryn closed her eyes, praying for a miracle, praying that somehow she could disappear with Ben, prevent this terrible moment from happening. Instead Kahlil came to a standstill beside her, towering above them, the legs of his dark trousers just inches from her bent head.
“Would you care to explain?” Kahlil asked quietly, his accent pronounced, his English formal, just the way they’d taught him in boarding school.
Her stomach heaved. Her teeth began to chatter.
But Ben, so young, so innocent, lifted his dark head, and stared at Kahlil, wide brown eyes fixed intently on his father’s angry face. “Mommy, who is that man?”
CHAPTER FOUR
WITHIN minutes of boarding the Learjet, the engines roared to life and they were off, taxiing down the runway, lifting from the ground. The sparkling lights of Texas fell away, and the night ominously purple-black, stretched silently before them.
Bryn wrapped her arms more snugly around Ben, her nerves close to breaking. She was grateful he finally slept, his thousand questions during the drive to the airport so innocent and yet so troubling. Where are we going, Mommy? Will we stay at a hotel? Can we go swimming?
Can we go swimming?
Oh God, what a question! For him this was an adventure, an exciting break from the day-to-day. He was with his mommy, he was on an airplane, and he’d been given a glass of soda pop. What else could a three-year-old want?
She closed her eyes, a lump sealing her throat, tears not far off. Everything she’d fought for the last three years had been lost. Ben’s safety was now in question. It all depended on Kahlil.
And Kahlil had said nothing since they boarded his plane two hours ago. But she knew him well enough to read his mood, his hard features set in sharp, tight lines, his temper barely leashed. Oh, he was angry. No, he was more than angry, he was livid.
She swallowed hard, swallowing around the lump, feeling as though she was choking, fear, panic, regret knotting inside her, making her completely crazed.
What would happen now? What would Kahlil do?
Ben stirred fretfully, protesting her tense grip. More gently she shifted him, slowly rocking in the leather lounge chair.
Ben relaxed again, his small body curling more closely against her, his soft cheek settling against her breast.
She felt his breath, and his shudder, as he sighed in his sleep. Her heart ached, her love for him almost too painful, too intense. Had her parents felt this way about her? And if so, why hadn’t she known it?
She’d been without her parents now nearly as many years as she’d spent with them and their memory was blurring, not their faces as they appeared in photographs, but their voices, the inflections, the conversations they’d had with her. She remembered their love for their work, their passion for the desert and the nomadic people of the Middle East, but she couldn’t recall the things they’d said to her, the little things about her interests, her needs, her dreams.
But it wasn’t her needs that were important now, it was Ben. His interests. His needs. And she vowed now, as she had since his birth, that he’d have security. He’d be safe. He’d feel loved.
She pressed another kiss to the top of his warm brow before smoothing a fistful of black hair back from his flushed face. He was beautiful, jet-black hair, dark eyes, perfectly made. So much like Kahlil…
“When is his birthday, Bryn?”
Kahlil knew. It was obvious Ben was his. They shared the same eyes, nose, beautiful curve of cheek and jaw. Even though Ben was young you could see the hints of the man he’d be.
Hot tears scalded her eyes. “May 8.”
Kahlil didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. She could feel his swift mental calculations and he added it up for himself, their wedding, the months between, the birth of Ben. She’d conceived him after their honeymoon when all she wanted was to be alone and naked with Kahlil, skin on skin, fingers and lips, bodies and hunger. She’d wanted him, all of him, with passion and desperation, her heart awakening, her senses stirred. She’d never felt so alive.
“My son,” Kahlil said flatly, gaze hooded, lips pressed into a fierce line.
“Yes.”
Kahlil rose from his leather armchair and crossed the cabin, moving to a small table between them. He selected a piece of dried fruit from the silver tray. “You,” he said quietly, “have made a terrible mistake.”
Venom filled his voice. He would make her suffer.
“So silent, Princess al-Assad. An evening of protests and now silence.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze from the apricot in his fingers. He was squeezing it, flattening it in the press of his fingers, just as he longed to mash her, force her to submit. With an effort she dragged her gaze from the fruit to his face. “I’m sorry.”
He popped the apricot into his mouth, chewing it slowly, swallowing after a long moment. “You are only sorry you were caught.”
She wondered at the truth in that. Was that the only reason she felt such overwhelming sorrow?
Again she thought of her parents, their love for each other, their love for their work, very little room for her. Had she kept Ben from Kahlil out of selfishness? Had she kept Ben a secret to ensure she had someone of her own to love?
But a choice like that, selfish, blind, would have only hurt Ben. “No. That’s not true,” she said, forcing herself to speak. “Everything I’ve done has been done to protect Ben.”
“You think I’d hurt my son?” Kahlil’s tone was so cold it cut. “Is that the kind of man you think I am?”
No, but he was blind, at least when it came to his cousin. Kahlil favored Amin. Always had, always would.
Ben could be hurt by Amin. If Amin would attack her, why would Ben be exempt?
“Your silence speaks volumes,” Kahlil said cuttingly, fresh contempt in his voice and the hard lines of his face. His features were perfectly imperial—strong high forehead, long, straight nose, firm mouth with just a hint of sensuality and a square, stubborn chin.
“I was thinking of Ben,” she answered softly, drawing him closer. “Everything is changing for him.”
“As it should.”
“He’ll be frightened.”
“He’ll be fine. He has me now.”
Kahlil wouldn’t remove her from Ben’s life, would he? He wouldn’t hurt her—or Ben—like that, would he?
Brilliant pain streaked through her, her breath catching as tears burned her eyes. “I’ll do anything you ask, just be gentle with him. He’s still so young—”
“I can see that for myself. I can see his devotion to you, too. I would not hurt him, Bryn. I would not wound my own flesh.”
She bowed her head, struggling to contain the swell of emotion. “We’re going to Zwar then?”
“We should land in Tiva in six hours.”
And Amin? Was he there? Would he be waiting? “Your family…do they know I’m coming?”
“My father’s dead,” Kkalil said shortly. “He died almost two years ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You don’t read newspapers?”
She tried to avoid any mention of Zwar, tried to barricade her from her old life with Kahlil. “I’m sorry,” she repeated helplessly.
“My cousin, Mala, the one that was about your age, she’s in London now, finishing graduate school. So she won’t be there. The rest are scattered.”
“And Amin?”
Kahlil shot her a quick, hard glance. “He lives abroad. Prefers Monte Carlo’s nightlife to Tiva.”
Relief swept through her, wave after wave of the sweetest news she’d heard in days.
Kahlil poured himself a drink. “Want one?” he asked, lifting the liqueur decanter.
“No. Thank you.”
The golden liquid gleamed in the brandy glass. “Tell me about my son.”
That’s right. Kahlil was a stranger to Ben. She felt a pang of remorse. It was a terrible thing to do to him. But had there been a choice? Was there another option she hadn’t thought of?
“I’d like to know him,” Kahlil added softly, his features tightening, his expression bleak.
The pang of remorse grew, widening to grief. “Ben is three going on eighty,” she said carefully. “He’s what I call an old soul. One of those children that are born knowing everything already. He’s very gentle, very loving. There isn’t a mean bone in his body.”