Читать книгу Marriage Behind the Façade - Lynn Harris Raye - Страница 7

IT took a week and half to get her life organized, and then to board a flight for Jahfar. Malik was not happy, as his messages indicated more than once, but Sydney refused to feel a moment’s worry about it. After he’d left her in the Malibu home—his Malibu home now—she’d quickly phoned her lawyer.

Jillian had tried to help, but in the end there was nothing she could do. An American divorce wouldn’t do the trick. When she’d originally drawn up the papers, she’d warned Sydney it might not be enough. Sydney had just hoped against hope that it would be. Even if it hadn’t been, she hadn’t expected an archaic law like the one mandating she live with Malik in Jahfar for forty days.

Forty days. My God.

Sydney sipped the champagne a flight attendant had brought for her. Her first class seat was comfortable, though the flight was full and she certainly wasn’t alone. She could have flown on Malik’s private plane, but she’d chosen to fly commercial instead. He’d been furious, but she’d held fast to her determination to do so. In the end, he’d gone to Jahfar a few days ahead of her.

Her stomach tightened nervously, and she took another sip of the champagne.

Jahfar. What would she find when she arrived? What would she feel?

It was Malik’s home, and she would in some ways be at his mercy. But she was determined to maintain as much control over her life as possible, which was why she’d insisted on making her own arrangements. Yes, it would have been easier to fly with Malik and let him take care of everything.

But she refused to give him that much control.

The plane touched down in Jahfar a couple of hours after dawn. The moment they taxied to the gate, Sydney realized how foolish her thoughts had been. Because nothing was under her control any longer. A flight attendant hurried to her side, hands clutched together in front of her body. The woman seemed nervous, afraid. And then she bowed deeply.

A heavy feeling settled in the pit of Sydney’s stomach.

“Princess Al Dhakir, please forgive us for not realizing you were aboard.”

“I …” Sydney blinked, her skin heating with embarrassment. “No, that’s fine,” she said, recovering herself though her heart throbbed painfully. “I didn’t wish it to be known.”

She felt so pretentious, but what else could she say? There was no explaining, no telling these people not to refer to her as a princess. They wouldn’t understand.

The woman bowed again before a man came forward and collected Sydney’s carry-on bag from the overhead compartment. Everyone else remained seated as she exited the plane first, her cheeks burning hot. She had an overwhelming urge to strangle Malik when next she saw him.

Which proved to be far sooner than she expected.

The international airport in Port Jahfar teemed with people clothed in both Jahfaran and Western dress, but they fell away like water from a ship’s bow as a man and his entourage cleaved through them. The man was tall, dressed in the flowing white dishdasha and traditional headdress of Jahfar. At his waist was a curved dagger with a jeweled hilt—surprising in an airport, and yet not so much considering where they were.

And who he was. She realized with a shock that the magnificent man in traditional clothing was actually her husband. Heat softened her bones, flooded her core. She’d never seen Malik in Jahfaran clothing. The effect was … extraordinary.

He was every inch a sheikh. Exotic, dark, handsome.

Magnificent.

Malik strode toward her with that arrogant gait of his, his dark eyes burning into her from afar so that she felt the urge to shrink inside herself and disappear. She looked like hell—felt like hell—after so many hours in the air.

And he was like something out of a fairy tale.

Oh, if only she could turn time back an hour or so and change clothes, fix her hair, her makeup.

Why, Sydney? What would be the point in that?

Malik might have made love to her again and again over the two months they were together, but he’d clearly been slumming for his own purposes. Supermodels and beauty queens were more to his taste.

Sydney thrust her chin out. She would not cower or hide. She would not be ashamed.

There was nothing to be ashamed of.

Malik came to a halt before her, his entourage carefully surrounding them both, protecting them, without coming too close.

Her throat felt as dry as sand as his gaze slid over her. “Here I am,” she said somewhat inanely. “As promised.”

Immediately, she wished she hadn’t been the first to speak. It was as if she’d given away some slice of invisible ground in their war with each other, as if she’d arrayed her forces on this particular field of battle and then failed because of something so obvious such as not arming them with weapons.

But it was because of him, because he was making her nervous as he studied her. No doubt he was regretting his impulse to inform anyone she was his wife. She was too casual in her white cotton tank, navy jacket, jeans and ballet flats. A princess should look more polished, like a movie star. She should be sporting Louboutins on her feet, carrying an Yves St. Laurent handbag and wearing the latest Milan fashions.

Well, she wasn’t truly a princess and there was little point in pretending to be one for the next month and ten days.

One dark eyebrow arched as he studied her. “Yes, here you are.”

Sydney’s heart skipped several beats at once, making her feel momentarily light-headed. She splayed her hand over her chest, breathing deeply to regulate the rhythm.

Malik looked alarmed. “What is wrong? Do you need a doctor?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Just a few skips. Happens sometimes, usually when I’m tired. It’s nothing.”

Before she had time to do more than squeak a protest, he swept her off her feet and into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he turned and barked orders to the men surrounding them.

“Malik, for God’s sake, put me down! I’m not hurt,” she cried.

He didn’t listen. She considered kicking her legs and fighting, showing him just how strong she was, but decided that bringing them both to the ground with a struggle was counterproductive.

“Please put me down,” she begged as he began to move. “This is embarrassing.”

People were staring at them, pointing, whispering. Malik seemed not to care. It was stunning to be held against him after so much time. Like plunging into a swimming pool with all your clothes on. He was hard, strong, and the heat of his body reminded her of another kind of heat they’d once shared.

He glanced down at her, his handsome features stark against the dark red background of the headdress framing his face. No one would ever mistake this man for anything other than a prince, she thought wildly. He was so sure of himself, so full of life and heat and passion.

She’d missed that.

No.

No, she was not going there. She didn’t miss Malik. She didn’t miss a single thing about him.

“We are not going far,” he said. “I will put you down as soon as we are somewhere quiet, so you may rest.”

She turned her head away as his long strides ate up the distance. The entourage hurried along with them, in front of them, their passage through the airport like the ripple of a giant wave. Soon, they were passing between sliding glass doors and into a quiet suite with plush chairs, tables and a bar at one end. Soft music played to the empty room. The lights in here were low, the air cool against her heated skin.

Malik set her down in one of the chairs. A glass of cold fizzy water appeared before she’d even blinked.

“Drink,” he ordered, settling into the chair beside her and picking up the glass.

“I’ve had plenty to drink,” she said, pushing his hand away. “Anything else, and I’ll explode.”

He looked doubtful. “Jahfar is hot, habibti. It can sneak up on you before you realize it.”

“Water is not my problem, Malik,” she insisted. “I’ve just flown all the way from L.A. I’m tired. I’m stressed. I want a bed and six hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

She’d slept a little on the plane, but not enough. She’d been too nervous.

And with good reason. The man staring back at her now, this hard, hawklike being who seemed so remote and unapproachable—so regal—could make a lion nervous. Were they really married? Had she ever shared a tender moment with this intimidating man?

“Then you shall have it,” he said. He nodded to a man who turned and disappeared through another door. A few minutes later, he took her hand—as she tried desperately to block the prickling heat of skin on skin—and led her out the same door and into an elevator. Then they were exiting the airport through a private entrance and climbing into a Mercedes limousine.

It was almost like the past, only Malik was dressed in white robes and a headdress instead of a tuxedo. He looked so cool and exotic while she felt frumpy and hot. She tugged at her jacket, drawing it off and laying it on the seat beside her.

Malik’s eyes dropped to her chest, lingered. She felt his gaze as a caress, felt her body responding, her nipples tightening inside her bra. Lightning sizzled in her core. She crossed her arms and turned to look out the window.

“Where are we going?” she asked as the limo slid into traffic. In front of them, a police car with whirling lights blazed a trail. The windows were tinted dark, but the light outside them was still so bright. It would be blinding, she realized, were she out in it. And hot, as he’d said.

“I have a home in Port Jahfar. It is only a few minutes away, on the coast. You will like it.”

Sydney leaned her head against the window. It was odd to be here, and exciting in a way she hadn’t anticipated. In the distance, stark sandstone mountains rose against the backdrop of the brilliant sky. Date palms dotted the landscape as they rode into the sprawling city. The buildings were a mix of modern concrete, glass and sandstone.

She realized that the hills in the opposite direction weren’t actually hills, but sand dunes. Undulating red sand dunes. Along their base, a camel train trod single file toward the city. It was the most singularly foreign moment she’d ever experienced.

The car soon left the stark landscape behind as they passed deeper into the city. Eventually they turned—and suddenly the sea was there, on her right. They rode a short distance along the coast, with the turquoise water sparkling like diamonds in the sun, and then they were turning into a gated complex.

Malik helped her from the car and ushered her inside a courtyard cooled with tiny jets spraying mist that evaporated before it hit her skin. The air was thick, hot. It wasn’t unexpected, or even anything she’d never experienced before—and yet it was different in its own way.

Or maybe she was just too tired.

A woman in a cotton abaya appeared, bowing and speaking to Malik in Arabic. And then he was turning to her as the woman melted back into the shadows from whence she’d come.

“Hala says that your room is prepared, habibti. You may sleep as long as you wish.”

She’d expected that a servant would show her the way, but Malik took her elbow—no matter how lightly he touched her, she still burned—and guided her into a huge sunken living area and down a hallway that led to a small suite. The outer room had cushions arrayed around a central table, a rosewood desk in one corner and two low-slung couches that faced each other across a fluffy white goat-hair rug. The bedroom featured a tall bed covered in crisp white cotton linens that beckoned seductively.

“I need my bags,” she said, realizing suddenly that she had nothing to change into. They’d left the airport without collecting her luggage.

“They are on the way. In the meantime, you will find all you need in the bathing room.” He gestured to another door. Sydney walked into the spacious bath, marveling at the sunken tub, a shaft of sunlight coming from high up in the ceiling and illuminating the marble. The light picked out the red and gold veins of the stone, sparkled in the glass mosaic tiles surrounding the tub.

“I trust it meets with your approval.”

Sydney whirled, his voice startling her, though it shouldn’t have. She’d known he was behind her, watching her from the door.

“It’s lovely,” she said, swallowing hard. Why did it feel so surreal to be here like this? She’d agreed to come, known it was necessary, and yet she felt off balance, out of her element in a way she hadn’t expected.

And why not? This is Jahfar, not Paris, she told herself. Not Los Angeles.

Malik crossed to her, cupped her face in his hands while her heart thundered in her ears.

She meant to protest, she really did, but her voice froze in her throat.

“There is nothing to fear, Sydney,” he said. “We will get through this.”

When he lowered his head, her eyelids fluttered closed automatically. Because she was tired, of course. No other reason.

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing her forehead while her pulse throbbed. The sound speared into her heart, reminded her of a different time when she still believed in a fairy tale ending with the handsome prince.

“Don’t,” she choked out as his lips moved to her temple.

An instant later, he released her and took a step backward. “Of course,” he said, his voice thicker than it had been only a moment ago. “As you wish.”

Sydney put a shaking hand to her throat, dropping it again when she realized how frightened and helpless it made her seem. She was neither of those things, though she was most definitely nervous. She’d loved him. She’d been through hell because of him. This situation was strange, unnatural.

For them both, she thought. He would probably prefer to be with his current mistress instead of her, the wife he’d thought he was rid of.

“I think it’s best if we don’t … touch,” she said.

He arched an elegant brow. “You are afraid of a little touch, Sydney? And here I thought I was resistible.”

He was mocking her. Naturally. She lifted her head. “There is no purpose to our touching, Malik. We aren’t happily married. We are nothing to each other. Not anymore. I realize I’m an inconvenience to you, but I just want to get this over with. You don’t have to pretend otherwise to make me feel more comfortable.”

His dark eyes flashed with emotion. “I see. How wise you have grown, Sydney. How very jaded.”

“I always thought you liked jaded women,” she retorted—and felt instantly contrite. If she were trying to make him believe they could behave with cool civility for forty days, she’d just failed abominably.

He leaned against the door frame, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking him relaxed. No, he was carefully—and tightly—controlled. It had been one of the things that had driven her the most insane about him, that ability to shut down his emotions and rein them in so hard that he was nearly inhuman.

“I did not realize you cared,” he said softly. Mockingly, still.

Sydney flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly. “I don’t.”

He straightened to his full height. “Let us not descend into games, habibti. You have had a long night of travel. Bathe, rest. I will see you when you are prepared to be reasonable.”

Her temper spiked at the condescension in his tone. “I’m not playing games, Malik. I came, didn’t I? I’m here because I want this over with. Because I want to be free of you forever.” She flung the last at him, unable to stop herself from saying the words.

His jaw hardened, his eyes flashing hot once more. “You will get your wish,” he growled. “But first I will get mine.”

Her stomach flipped. “Wh-what do you mean?”

He looked so menacing. “Scared, Sydney? Afraid of what I will exact from you now that you are here?”

She swallowed, her throat thick with emotion. “Of course not.”

His gaze slid down her body, back up, his eyes hot on hers. His voice came out as a sensual drawl that made heat flare in her core. “Then perhaps you should be.”