He released her face and began to pace in the tent. His long strides ate up the distance quickly, and he was forced to turn after a mere five steps.
Dora brushed away her tears and ignored the steady dampness that replaced them. She told herself this was a good thing—that once she knew how bad it was, they could talk about fixing the problems. But the coldness only increased, and her heart braced itself for even more pain.
“Amber and I had been engaged from the time we were children. It was the wish of both our fathers.” He paused as if searching for the right words. “We did fight in New York, but only because I told her I didn’t want to marry her.”
She raised her head. “What?”
“I didn’t want to marry her. Amber is not…” He hesitated. “She would not be a good wife or mother. I didn’t know how to break the engagement in such a way as to avoid scandal. Then I heard you on the phone with Gerald, and I thought you might be a good solution to my dilemma. You are intelligent and even-tempered. I thought you could learn the duties and be a good mother. You were also a virgin.” He paused. “I needed a wife, and you were a likely candidate.”
She’d heard too much, she thought, wishing she could transport herself to another place, or even another time. How could she continue to breathe through the gaping hole in her chest? How could her heart continue to beat, her blood flow? Why hadn’t the pain killed her yet?
And then she knew the awful truth—that no matter how much it hurt, she would never die from the agony. She was destined to survive, even though she didn’t want to. She was going to keep on living and suffering and going through the motions because there was no mercy, no escape, no hope.
“So it was all lies,” she said dully. “All of it. When you told me that you wanted me, that you’d wanted me from the beginning.” It was hard for her to talk, nearly impossible for her to go on, but she forced herself to continue. She had to speak the truth. Once she faced it, she could begin the incredibly slow process of putting the pieces back together again…if that were even possible.
“You lied about the passion, you lied when you told me it would be impossible to leave me behind in New York. You made me feel special and important, and it was all a lie.”
Life had become a cruel joke—nearly as cruel as her new husband.
Khalil stopped in front of her. “The past is finished, and there’s no reason to dwell on it. Yes, I stretched the truth to make you feel better. Until the night I heard you on the phone with Gerald, I never thought of you as anything but efficient. I didn’t have any particular regard for you at the time, but you’re my wife, now. I believe we have a chance to make this union successful.”
“Successful? Are you insane?” she asked, pushing herself to her feet.
“Not at all. I made vows to you, and I fully intend to honor them.”
“But nothing is real,” she protested. “You lied about everything.”
“You’re making too much of this.”
“And you’re making too little. You toyed with me. You made me believe in you.”
His mouth twisted. “You wanted to believe me. You were desperate to believe that a prince from a fairy tale had arrived to take you away from your sad, little life. You lied to yourself as much as I lied to you.”
She glared at him. “But I never lied to you. You can’t excuse your own behavior by pointing the finger at me.”
“What about when you told me you loved me? You don’t even know me.”
“I never told you I loved you.”
He met her gaze, then shifted uncomfortably. Silence grew, then pressed down upon them. She hadn’t said she loved him. She was too afraid of the words to ever speak them casually. He was right that she’d wanted to believe in the possibilities, but was that so great a sin?
“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Fine, I lied. I convinced you to marry me, using false pretenses. We’re married now. So we’ll make the best of it. We’ll start over.” He reached for her. “Dora, some of what I told you was true. I think you will make a fine wife. You will be a good mother my sons, and you have the perfect body to allow my sons to grow healthy inside of you.”
She sucked in her breath. It wasn’t enough that he ripped out her heart—now he wanted to talk about her hips, too? “No. I don’t want to be married to you. I want to go home.”
“Where is home? With Gerald?”
She flinched, but didn’t back down. “Anywhere but here. I won’t stay.”
“You don’t have a choice.” He moved closer and reached out to touch her.
Despite her desire to stand up for herself, she backed away quickly, knowing that if he stroked any part of her body she would be lost.
“Don’t,” she told him, folding her arms over her chest. She needed time to think.
Except he wasn’t going to give her time. Even as she struggled to collect her thoughts, he advanced.
She took another step back, then another. The pain was still there. She didn’t know what to believe. He hadn’t wanted her. He hadn’t longed for her. He’d picked her because she was a convenient virgin. That was hardly the basis of a successful marriage.
But that wasn’t what hurt the most. What ripped her open and left her bleeding was that she’d done it to herself. She’d been a fool…again. First with Gerald and now with Khalil. With Gerald, she’d been so lonely that she’d allowed herself to believe that he had qualities that didn’t exist in him at all. The small conciliation was that with Khalil, he’d fed her deception with pretty words.
“Dora.”
His warm hand settled on her shoulder. She gave a sharp cry and ran toward the entrance. Once outside, she realized she was in the middle of the desert with no idea which direction was home. Probably because she wasn’t sure where home was. El Bahar? Of course not. Los Angeles? Not anymore. Where did she want to go?
Khalil grabbed her arm and pulled her back inside. “Do not run away from me again,” he growled.
“Or what? You’ll have me locked up or maybe beaten. You seem a very practiced bully.”
Dark eyes flashed with fire. “I have never bullied you.”
She hated that he spoke the truth. “You used me.”
“You let yourself be used. You welcomed me into your bed.”
Color flooded her face. She swallowed her shame. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s ever going to happen again. I want a divorce. I want to leave you and this country.”
He leaned close until his face nearly touched hers. “Never.”
“I won’t let you destroy me.”
He laughed cruelly. “Destroy what?” he asked mockingly. “You were wandering around at an airport when I found you. You had nothing. Your fiancé had left you, you had no job, no money. I saved you. I married you and brought you to my country where you have a chance at a life beyond anything you have ever imagined. Here you will have wealth and power and a title. You are an honored member of the house of Khan. Do not forget that. You will be my wife, and you will bear me many sons.”
“I would rather be married to a dirt farmer than you, prince or not, and I will never have your children because I will never let you touch me. I want a divorce.”
“Never. You are mine.”
“I am not a possession.”
“You are my wife and my woman. Do not make the mistake of challenging me because I will always win.”
“Not this time—not with me.”
“Wife of mine, you are wrong.”
She sensed his intention before he moved, but she was too slow. Even as she tried to step away, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up against him.
Anger, pain, sadness, loneliness, betrayal all blended inside of her, draining her strength and her will to fight.
“I want you,” he said, his mouth inches from hers. “I will have you.”
“You’re going to have to force me, because I’m not going to do this willingly.”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Didn’t I just w
arn you about challenging me?”
Then he kissed her. Not the soft, tempting kiss he’d used the first time they’d made love, but a powerful, claiming kiss that forced a response, even as it promised the sweetest of rewards for giving in.
“No!” She pressed against his shoulders, trying to push him away.
He laughed, his lips still against hers. “Fight me, my desert cat. Fight me, then claim me as your rightful mate.”
“Never!”
But even as she breathed the promise, she felt the first tendrils of desire coiling through her. Heat hot enough to melt resolve, even hot enough to warm the very ice from her bones, crept through her like dawn would creep across the thick, plush carpets. It moved slowly, filling her from the inside out, sucking away her will.
His tongue swept across her lower lip, back and forth, back and forth, whispering for admittance. She wanted to resist. She told herself to be strong—that she hated him, that he was horrible, that he’d used her and hurt her and…and…
He untied the tiny bows that held her robe together, then slipped his hand through the gap in the heavy silk. Even as she swore to herself that she would stand firm against him, his fingers brushed against the tight bud of her nipple. At the same moment his tongue slipped between her suddenly parted lips.
She pushed against him one last time, then sobbed out her defeat. Hating him, hating herself more, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close.
Dora shut her eyes, not wanting to see the look of triumph on his face, but instead of gloating, Khalil broke the kiss long enough to gently whisper, “You are my wife, little desert cat. I will always keep you safe.”
Perhaps he thought he could, for he would never see that the greatest threat to her safety was no one else but him.
Chapter 10
“Don’t resist,” Khalil said, still whispering against her mouth. “Want me back. Need me. Make love with me.”
Dora shivered in his embrace, trying to disconnect herself from what was happening, even as her body responded to his nearness. She kept her arms around his neck and her eyes firmly closed as he unfastened all the tiny ties down the front of her robe. When he drew her arms down so he could push the robe off her shoulders, she steadfastly refused to look at him.
The heavy silk slid down to pool around her feet. Underneath, she wore a lace dress, and under that was a silk chemise. The traditional garb did not allow for panties or a bra, and she felt oddly vulnerable as she stood before him.
“Dora,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Give in with grace. Why would you want to win this battle? How would that be a victory?”
“I would have my dignity,” she said into the darkness.
“And a cold bed. Is that what you want?”
What she wanted was a real marriage with a man who cared about her. At this point she would accept respect and liking, with the hope that love would grow. What she had instead was lies.
“I don’t want you.”
One fingertip brushed against her hard nipple. “Your body says otherwise.”
She shivered involuntarily, and her eyes snapped open. “I can’t help my response to you, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s the same as when the doctor taps on your knee, and your leg jerks. In this case the nerves are not connected to my brain. My weak outer self might react to the sexual act, but my heart and soul are completely detached.”
Dark eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “A very pretty speech. Shall we test your theory?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re saying that we can make love and that you can respond to me sexually, but that the act won’t touch you on the inside.”
“Exactly.” She believed completely in what she told him—she just hoped she wasn’t fooling herself.
He took her hand in his and pushed up the loose, long sleeve to the elbow, exposing the underside of her forearm. “You’re saying that when I touch you like this—” He lightly traced a line from the inside of her wrist to her elbow. “That any reaction you have is the same as automatically pulling back when you touch a hot stove?”
“Yes.” She ignored the trembling that began inside of her and the goose bumps that erupted on her skin. Just standing this close to Khalil made it difficult to think, let alone banter with him.
He turned her hand over and stared at the back, then traced the lacy lines of the henna. “Do you know that somewhere in this decorative pattern I will find my name?”
She blinked. She knew he was talking…she could hear the words…but it was so hard to concentrate when he touched her. There was a traffic jam in her nervous system and only the emergency vehicles, in this case the sensation of his fingers on her skin, were getting through. Everything else, like conversation, had to wait.
“Your name?” she repeated dully as he circled round and round on the back of her hand, then traced the length of each of her fingers.
“Yes. Tradition dictates that the husband’s name be woven into the henna pattern.” He looked at her, his dark eyes smoldering with hot, heavy, ready desire. “Where is my name, Dora?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t watch Rihana when she painted me.”
“So I’ll have to go searching. How sad that they only paint your hands and feet.”
It was sad, she thought vaguely. If only they’d painted her all over. There would be more places for Khalil to search.
The thought of his fingers and perhaps even his tongue on her body made her thighs quiver. She remembered what it had been like before…when he’d touched her and then kissed her between her legs. She remembered the feel of him against her and the passion of her release. She remembered all of it and even though she knew it was wrong and made her weak, she wanted to experience it again.
He led her to the bed. There they paused while he pulled off the lace dress, leaving her in a calf-length chemise and nothing else. Dora shivered again, but it wasn’t from the cold. In his robes, with his eyes blazing passion, Khalil was a dark, mysterious stranger. She was far from anything she’d ever known. She’d married this man standing in front of her. For all she knew he had the power of life and death over her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him, nor did she know why he’d married her. She was committed to resisting him in all ways, including physically. And she’d never in her life known such incredible physical longing.
She hadn’t known it was possible to stand and breathe and want with such powerful need. She ached, she shook, she melted, she cried out deep inside for him to take her. Even as she knew she should resist. Even as she knew she would hate herself for her weakness…she wanted him.
He urged her to sit on the edge of the bed. The dais was covered with carpets, and her toes curled into the thick weave. Khalil settled next to her and took possession of her left hand. He held it palm up in his, studying the pattern made by the henna. The stain was a dark orange-brown on her skin. Fatima had told her it would turn a little red as it faded over time. The design was exotic on her pale skin, bringing to mind how out of place she was in this foreign land.
He lightly scraped the tip of his fingers over her palm. “I don’t see my name here, do you?”
She thought about telling him that she couldn’t really see her hand, that he held it too far and angled away from her, but the tingles shooting up her arm made it difficult to talk. He turned her hand over and stroked it.
“Nor here,” he murmured before pressing her fingertips to his mouth and rubbing the sensitive pads with his tongue.
Had she not been sitting, she would have fallen in a heap on the floor. Muscles quivered, joints gave way. She wanted to sag against him, to sigh, to moan. Instead she bit her lower lip and endured the exquisite torture.
He licked and nibbled his way across her palm, then up the inside of her wrist and arm, all the while speaking of his name and hers, of the weaving of time and futures and how she belonged to him. She didn’t really listen. They didn’t have a future, she
didn’t belong to him, and right now she didn’t care about anything but the way he touched her.
His mouth pressed against the inside of her elbow. Strong hands splayed across her back as he urged her to recline against the mound of pillows on the bed. She thought about protesting, but it was too late for pride. She was here because she couldn’t imagine surviving without knowing what it was like to make love with him again. She might play the fool, but she wouldn’t play the hypocrite.
When she’d stretched out on the bed, he leaned over her. “Dora,” he whispered, speaking her name with a husky passion that made her ache inside. She was already wet between her thighs, wet and swollen and so very ready for him. She wanted to know his body again, his weight on hers, his maleness pressing inside of her.
She waited for his kiss, but he didn’t touch her lips. Instead he nibbled on her shoulder, then moved lower, taking her nipple in his mouth.
She still wore her silk chemise. As he suckled her, the thin, gossamer fabric dampened. When he raised his head she saw that the material was now transparent. She could see the peachy-pink bud puckering against the undergarment. He saw it, too. Holding her gaze, he deliberately touched the tip of his tongue to the sensitized peak. To see as well as feel his seduction was more than she could stand. She half raised herself, grasping his head, pulling him down so she could kiss him.
Their mouths met in frenzied passion. She needed all of him. Next to her, in her, on top of her. More and more of him. She pushed at his clothes, fumbling for the ties of his robe. He shrugged out of them quickly, then pulled off his loose shirt. He had to leave the bed to remove his trousers, and she was shocked to hear herself whimper when he stood up to shed the garments.
But then he stood before her, naked and so incredibly beautiful. She studied the hard planes of his chest, the thick coils of his muscles, the dark hair crowning his arousal.
“Tell me,” he commanded, standing by the bed but just out of reach. “Say the words. Tell me that you want me.”
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