by Abby Green
‘What exactly are you talking about?’
His mouth thinned. ‘The nice little portfolio my assistant put together for me, featuring your various and myriad exploits last summer in Europe, mainly on the Côte d’Azur.’
She wasn’t being paranoid. Liyah’s insides cramped. ‘Those pictures weren’t—’
He cut in. ‘Weren’t what they looked like? Spare me the excuses, Liyah. It was pretty clear what they were—pictures of an entitled royal socialite living to excess. But I couldn’t care less what you got up to, or that you seem to like to affect this act of faux innocence and naivety. What I do care about is that you do not repeat that behaviour while you are married to me. Luckily the pictures didn’t get picked up by the wider gossip sites. And we’re going to keep it that way. You won’t be hooking up with any of your Eurotrash party friends while you’re with me.’
Liyah felt sick. She could see the pictures in her mind’s eye. Lolling on the deck of a massive yacht in the sparkling Mediterranean Sea drinking champagne. Falling out of famous nightclubs being held up by so-called friends. Shopping in the most famous shops and streets of Spain, Italy, Paris... You name it, she’d been there.
Except she hadn’t.
Because the girl in those pictures hadn’t been her.
The words to try and explain this to Sharif trembled on her tongue, but he was like a stone. Disgusted. Disapproving. And a need to protect herself rose up. She would only be with this man for a year at the most. He didn’t deserve to know the real her—the woman far removed from those pictures.
And how could she defend herself when his first impression of her had been the wanton woman he’d met at the oasis, who had shown no hesitation in jumping into bed with a complete stranger? No wonder he believed the worst.
She forced the emotion out of her voice. ‘You can rest assured that I won’t be a liability while we’re married.’
Thomas appeared in the doorway at that moment, with perfect timing, to announce dinner.
Liyah preceded Sharif out of the room and tried not to feel like a chastened child. But it was hard when she wanted to stamp her feet and tell him that he had it all wrong. The injustice made her breathless, but she felt a stronger need not to let him see the soft, vulnerable part of her that very few had ever seen.
To Liyah’s relief, Sharif hadn’t brought up those lurid paparazzi shots again over their deliciously cooked dinner of tender chicken and rice infused with herbs and spices. But it appeared that he wasn’t prepared to let everything go.
He leant back now, a nearly empty wine glass in his hand, and looked at her. ‘I believed that someone must have hurt you, but if anything it’s more likely to have been the other way around. Who was he?’
Liyah kept her face expressionless, even as she sucked in a breath at the barb. He thought she’d been acting the whole time. Feigning her reticence and lack of experience.
An image came into her head. A young man—her age. Tall, handsome. Cheeky smile. Charming. Intelligent. How easily he’d swept her off her feet and made her believe that he was truly interested in her. How easily she’d let him breach barriers she’d never allowed anyone else to, so self-protective and distrustful.
But when she’d first arrived in Europe a couple of years ago she’d been hungry to experience this new world and be a modern, independent woman. So one night she’d allowed him the ultimate intimacy.
She hadn’t told him she was a virgin, too embarrassed and shy, and eager to relieve herself of the burden of innocence. But when she’d tensed at the unexpected pain on penetration he’d stopped, a horrified look on his face, clearly not expecting a fellow university student of twenty-two to still be a virgin.
For a moment she’d thought he’d force himself on her, but he’d jumped up and hurled a string of profane insults instead. And then she’d discovered that she was the butt of a random drunken bet between him and his friends to see how quickly he could get her into bed. Apparently he’d won his bet.
After that Liyah could remember covering up with tomboyish clothes. Tying her hair back. Wearing her glasses all the time. Diminishing herself as much as possible to avoid sticking out on the university campus. Drawing attention.
And yet Sharif had just had to look at her and she’d forgotten the painful lessons she’d learnt in a heartbeat. Sheer instinct had overridden every rational bone in her body, proving that there was still a shameful hunger inside her, ready to expose her weakness for connection and intimacy at all costs. She’d learnt nothing. And this man wasn’t about to believe what she had to say in her defence. So she would protect herself by playing to his low regard of her.
She pushed the hurt down and lifted her chin. ‘He was nobody. I don’t even remember his name.’
‘I almost feel sorry for him.’
‘He really doesn’t need your sympathy,’ Liyah forced out. Seeking desperately to get the focus off her, and ruffle Sharif’s irritatingly judgemental and cool demeanour, she said, ‘Considering our experience of each other, and the fact that this is a marriage in name only, will you be discreet?’
Sharif’s gaze narrowed on her. Liyah’s face grew hot.
He said, ‘Taking lovers and causing headlines is the absolute antithesis of what I’m aiming to achieve by marrying you. I’ve got more important things to worry about.’
‘Like what, exactly? Why is it so important to you to have a wife right now, when clearly it’s not something you relish?’
Sharif looked at Liyah. Her cheeks had darkened with colour. Her eyes were flashing and he could see her chest moving up and down. She was agitated. Because he’d caught her out? Because he was setting parameters? Whatever the reason, it was having an incendiary effect on his blood and he had to shift discreetly in his seat.
He had to focus on what she’d asked. His first instinct was to give her some platitude, but something stopped him. He’d never been in this situation before, with a woman who was ostensibly going to be by his side for the foreseeable future. The longest liasion he’d ever had had lasted about two weeks.
‘I’m at a crucial juncture in the development of the Marchetti Group and having a wife by my side will take me—us—to the next level. That is the most important thing, and it drives every decision I make.’
Was it his imagination or had she flinched slightly when he’d said that? Her eyes were huge and very green. Then she looked away and it irritated him, because usually he was the one to avoid eye contact. And why did he feel the need to justify why the Marchetti Group was so important when he’d never felt the need to before?
He wanted her eyes back on him. ‘I’ve got a team lined up to come here tomorrow and set you up.’
She looked at him again, and Sharif felt a moment of satisfaction even as a spike of need made his body tighten.
She said, ‘Set me up?’
He nodded, imagining her in a sleek satin and lace concoction before he could stop himself. ‘A stylist and a hair and beauty team. A few others. To make sure you’re prepared for our first event on Wednesday evening.’
The colour drained out of her face slightly. ‘That’s the day after tomorrow!’
Sharif nodded. ‘A press release will be issued tomorrow, announcing our marriage. We’ve flown under the radar so far, which is how I wanted it. But you need to be ready to face the world I inhabit. This is going to be far removed from the tacky haunts you frequented in Europe and that dusty palace in Taraq.’
Her cheeks flushed again and her jaw tightened. ‘It wasn’t me in those—’ She stopped suddenly.
‘It wasn’t you in what?’
She shook her head, letting her hair fall forward. ‘Nothing.’ Then she looked at him again and pulled at a wayward strand. ‘There’s not much I can do about this unless you want me to cut it off.’
To Sharif’s surprise he felt a visceral rejection of that notion ev
en as he wanted to tame it somehow, because it reminded him too much of the wildness she aroused inside him.
He shook his head. ‘No need. I have the best in the business lined up—they’ll make sure you’re presentable.’
‘Thanks.’
Sharif almost smiled at her sarcastic tone. ‘Believe me, you’re going to need all the armour you can get. As the wife of the Marchetti Group’s CEO, your every move and item of clothing will be scrutinised with a magnifying glass. But it shouldn’t be too daunting. After all, you are a princess, so you were always going to be on display to a lesser or greater extent.’
A short while later, after Sharif had excused himself to go to his study and make some calls—did the man never stop working?—Liyah was curled up in a chair in front of one of the big windows, her hands around a mug of herbal tea delivered to her by Thomas.
Manhattan looked like a magical carpet of diamonds outside. She could see the blinking lights of all the helicopters flying in the sky. Delivering more billionaires to their luxurious apartments?
Sharif’s words resounded in her head. ‘You were always going to be on display.’ Was she? She knew he was right, but somehow, she’d believed that by escaping to Europe to go to university she’d somehow slip under the radar. And then Samara had needed her.
The thought of being moulded to fit into Sharif’s world filled her with dread. She’d always preferred being in the background, even though she’d inevitably stood out. When she’d been a teenager she’d been gangly and uncoordinated, and then, seemingly overnight, she’d developed curves that she’d had no idea what to do with.
The women of the palace had always used to pass comment that she was too tall. Too ungainly. Not delicate and feminine like the rest of her sisters.
That had been one of the things that had attracted her to the guy who had shown her attention at university. The guy she’d trusted with her innocence when she shouldn’t have. He’d been tall, although not as tall as Sharif. He’d seemed glad that she was tall, even making a joke about how nice it was not to have to bend down to kiss someone.
It had all been smooth lies to fulfil a bet.
Liyah cringed now to think of how desperate she’d been to forge a life for herself, to fit in, and how starved of attention. Weak, for affection.
But Sharif hadn’t had to say anything. He’d just looked at her as if he wanted to devour her. She shivered now, even though the apartment was at the perfect temperature for comfort.
On an impulse, she went and retrieved her laptop from her luggage and brought it back to the living room. Sitting cross-legged on the chair, she did what she should have done days ago. She looked up her husband.
She was immediately bombarded with a slew of paparazzi shots of Sharif with women. Lots of women. And each one absolutely stunning. Redheads. Blondes. Brunettes. All pale and sleek and elegant.
None like Liyah, with her wild untameable hair and dark skin. Something twisted painfully inside her. She clearly wasn’t his type. What had happened between them at the oasis had been an anomaly. No wonder he didn’t want anything more to happen.
She delved further and noted that he was rarely seen with the same woman more than a handful of times. And then she came across the recent spate of ‘kiss and tells’. Women clearly unhappy with the way he’d unceremoniously ended their liaisons.
Liyah shivered again. She could imagine only too well how it must feel—like being under the scorching rays of the sun only to be suddenly thrust into the icy winds of the Arctic.
She shook her head at her fanciful imagination. It was a good thing to know what kind of a man he was and realise that she’d escaped relatively unscathed.
Unscathed? mocked a voice in her head. Unscathed doesn’t quite account for the fact that he’s ignited a wicked hunger inside you.
Liyah ignored the voice and purposely clicked on a link relating to the Marchetti business, moving away from incendiary images and thoughts. She read about Sharif’s deceased father, who sounded like a larger than life character, bullish in his ambition to build a global brand from a handful of boutiques in Rome. He’d been a dark, masculine man. Undeniably handsome. But there was something about him that Liyah thought looked cruel.
Then she read about the speculation that he would have been nothing without the vast fortunes of each of the women he’d married. Sharif’s mother was mentioned and pictured—Princess Noor, a stunningly beautiful woman. Liyah recognised her beauty in Sharif’s features. The deep-set eyes. High cheekbones. Proud, regal nose.
She read about how Sharif had rebuilt the company after his father had died, having left it tainted with scandals and rumours of corruption. She read about Sharif’s ruthlessness in going after legacy brands, only to strip them of everything but their name before hiring whole new teams to revitalise them.
She read about his half-brothers. Nikos and Maks. From different mothers. Both were gorgeous. Nikos was being called ‘a reformed playboy’, after marrying and settling down with a young family. There was a picture of him with his pregnant wife and a dark-haired baby that looked to be nearly a year old. Apparently, he hadn’t known about his son until after he was born.
Maks seemed to be much more elusive. But Liyah found a picture of his recent wedding to a petite and very pretty woman with honey-blonde hair. They were coming out of a civil office in London and smiling at each other. They looked as if they were in love, and Liyah felt a flash of envy that she quickly told herself wasn’t envy. It was pity—because their apparent happiness would undoubtedly be an illusion. Even staged for the cameras.
She thought of what Sharif had said about needing to marry to take the Marchetti Group to the next level. Perhaps that was why his brothers had married too. A joint effort to stabilise the brand. That made a lot more sense to Liyah than the fanciful notion that perhaps Sharif’s brothers were different from him and had married for love.
How could they possibly believe in love when they’d all come from broken marriages?
Clearly Nikos had married his ex-lover and the mother of his child only to protect the reputation of the company. What about Maks, though? And how had Sharif become the sophisticated and ruthless CEO of a vast conglomerate if he’d grown up on the other side of the world in a desert kingdom?
Liyah shut the laptop abruptly, not liking the swirl of questions in her head precipitated by the online search. She didn’t need to know about Sharif or his family. She just needed to get through the next year and then she would finally be free to pursue her own goals and her own life.
She waited for a spurt of excitement and joy at that prospect, but she felt nothing except a kind of...flatness.
She scowled at herself and put it down to weariness. In spite of her nap earlier, and the nap on the plane, she was tired, and a lot had happened. It was no wonder she couldn’t drum up much enthusiasm.
However, when she crept past Sharif’s office door a few minutes later, and heard the deep rumble of his voice on the other side, the instant rush of adrenalin and excitement made a complete mockery of any notion that her sense of anti-climax was fatigue-related...
CHAPTER FIVE
TWO DAYS LATER, Sharif waited for Liyah to appear in the apartment’s main reception room. He’d hardly seen her since that first evening—he’d been busy catching up on what he’d missed during his few days’ absence.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that if he was a regular person he would still be on his honeymoon. But before his brain could be flooded with tantalising images of what a honeymoon with Liyah might look like—feel like—he reminded himself that he wasn’t a regular person, and hadn’t been since the moment his father had seduced his mother with one eye on creating an heir and another on stealing her vast dowry.
Sharif put two fingers behind his bow tie and his top button in an effort to loosen them slightly. He felt constricted when he normally never did. The
re was a hum in his blood too—a hum of anticipation. Something he usually only associated with the prospect of bettering a rival in business or making a spectacular acquisition.
He heard a sound and instinctively tightened his fingers around the small tumbler of whisky he’d poured himself. He turned around slowly to see Liyah standing just inside the door, looking unbelievably hesitant.
And stunning.
Sharif didn’t even realise his breath had stopped until his body forced him to breathe in.
His gaze followed the outline of the satin dress from the thin straps over her shoulders to the line of the bodice that cut across her chest, where the swells of her breasts were just tantalisingly visible. It went in at her slim waist and then curved out again over her hips, falling in a straight, elegant line to the floor.
It was an earthy olive-green, and it enhanced the colour of her skin exactly as he’d imagined. The design couldn’t have been more simple. Deceptively simple, as he knew. He recognised haute couture as soon as he saw it. It could have been made for her, but he knew it hadn’t been as there hadn’t been enough time. But the material moulded to her body in a way that looked indecent enough to be bespoke.
He felt dizzy. Her hair had been straightened into a sleek fall of black silk and tucked behind her ears, where drop diamonds sparkled. But the absence of her usual unruly waves failed to diminish the incendiary memories of that night when she’d been a wild, untamed goddess, emerging from the depths of a black pool. He found this version of her more than provocative when it should be less.
He noticed that the only other jewellery she wore was a simple diamond bracelet. She held a matching green clutch bag in her hands.
She cleared her throat. ‘Is it...? Am I...okay?’
Sharif was used to women fishing for compliments, and was accustomed to handing them out without even thinking, or really meaning them. Empty platitudes. Exactly what he was expected to say. But this was uncharted territory for him.