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SKIN still damp, desire finally satiated, Bryn gazed up at Kahlil, waiting for him to speak. She knew there was something on his mind. He had that look, the tension at his mouth, fine creases fanning from his eyes.
She wouldn’t press the issue, if there was an issue. Far better to give Kahlil time. And truly, she felt deliciously relaxed, muscles weak, pulse finally slowing from its earlier furious rhythm.
Kahlil reached for her, running his callused palm across her bare midriff, over her rib cage, his fingers exploring each rib and inch of skin until he cupped one breast, and its rose-tipped peak in his hand. “You were serious yesterday, about staying?”
She stared at his hand on her breast, torn between the warmth stealing through her, the heat surging to life yet again in her belly and between her thighs, and the fear his words created.
“Bryn?”
He still wanted to send her home. Even after this, after the most intimate acts a man and woman could do together.
She closed her eyes briefly. “I won’t go, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Is that what I’m asking?” He kicked back the sheet, exposing both of them to light. His body was hard everywhere, his chest deep, hips narrow and hard, his thigh thickly muscled. He was still so strong. She could see the soldier in him. He’d served six years in the Zwar military. All Zwar men served their country. Ben would have to serve as well.
“Well, isn’t it?” she returned, unconsciously squaring her shoulders, denying her desire to feel him again, be taken again, savored again. He made her feel like a delicacy and she loved his skill, his incredible sexual prowess.
But that wasn’t the issue, she reminded herself, wondering why she’d though Kahlil would ever be anything but an adversary. Truce, indeed! He was still trying to wrest Ben from her custody. “Ben and I stay together. Always.”
“No divorce?”
“Not a chance.”
Abruptly Kahlil leaned forward and suckled one of her nipples. Silvery arrows of sensation shot from her nipple to her belly and she moaned a protest.
Kahlil lifted his head, smiled his satisfaction. He relished his power over her. Relished the control. “So you have no objection then to renewing our vows?”
Renewing vows. Bryn jerked, grabbed for the sheet, feeling the need for protection. “Renew vows…as in marry again?”
He pushed her hand away from the sheet. “Leave it. I like seeing you this way.”
“I can’t think naked.”
“Of course you can. Concentrate.” His gaze turned brooding. “We were married the first time in an American courthouse. This time we’d do it here. A traditional Arab ceremony.”
Marry Kahlil again?
Her mind spun, thoughts racing, her body felt heavy, almost languid.
To be loved by Kahlil again, feel the strength and hunger of his passion not just once, but again and again, to return to his arms, his heart, his—
But he wasn’t declaring love. She wasn’t returning as a beloved wife, but as an object. His property. This was part of his domination, his need for control.
So? A little voice challenged deep inside her. What did it matter? She’d be with him; they’d be a family. Ben would have what he wanted and Bryn—she’d be with Kahlil again, and really, wasn’t that what she wanted?
There was no reason they couldn’t make it work. It had been wonderful between them in the beginning, heaven, sweet heaven before the worst hell.
A clock bonged somewhere in the palace. She felt the weight of time, the weight of the past. The last three and a half years had been so long, so incredibly difficult. She couldn’t imagine going back to that kind of life again. “If we were never divorced, why do we need to renew our vows?”
He reached out, plucked a long white-gold tendril from her shoulder, and allowed the hair to slip between his fingers. “It’s a show of faith.”
The intimacy of the touch, the ease with which he touched her, created a hunger inside of her, her belly tightening with need. If only he’d touch her again, her cheek, her breast, her belly, her thighs. She sucked in a breath, appalled by the intensity of her desire.
“Is this for Ben’s b…benefit?” she asked, curling her fingers into her palms, her limbs melting, her body melting.
“Ben, and my people.”
His people. But not her. Never her.
It stung, but better that he be honest than let her get her hopes up. This way she knew where she stood. This time she was not the beloved, but the obligation. Not the jewel in his crown but the mother of his son.
Kahlil caught her chin in his fingers and turned her head to face him. “You have a problem marrying me again?”
“No.” She could see nothing now but Kahlil’s face. Her gaze met his and she stared into his eyes, mesmerized by gold flecks and the determination she saw there. He exuded intensity, and conviction. He was brilliant, complex, emotional. He fascinated her mind and confounded her heart.
Leaning forward Kahlil’s nose briefly touched hers, his lips a breath away. “You must be quite sure, Bryn. I won’t suffer a runaway wife again.”
His lips brushed hers. A shiver raced down her spine.
“Hmm?” he murmured, his fingers splaying against her jaw, his palm cool and strong against her throat.
She pressed her trembling lips to his. She was unable to hold his words in her mind; her brain was lost to hunger.
His mouth, firm, cool, rasped her lips. He drew back an inch. “I need an answer, Bryn.”
Her eyes closed. She leaned forward a hair, closing the distance between them again. “Yes.”
“You’ll marry me again?”
“Yes.”
And this time when they made love it was with hunger and intensity, a consuming desire that nearly burned them both alive. Nothing mattered, she thought blindly, nothing mattered but them, and this.
She returned to her room just before dawn, senses satiated, heart still raw. She was wrong, she acknowledged, opening her door and gazing at sleeping Ben, there were things that did matter more than making love to Kahlil.
Ben, for starters.
And earning Kahlil’s love.
All the lovemaking in the world wasn’t enough to ease the loneliness inside her. Kahlil touched her, tasted her, took her with passion but the emptiness in her heart, the detachment in his expression, only grew.
If only he’d utter one affectionate word, give her a sign of deeper feelings, but he kept his emotions hidden and shared with her just…skin.
His body. Her body. He was doing his best to reduce their relationship to sex.
Bryn closed her eyes, leaned against the doorframe, drawing a slow, ragged breath. She wanted Kahlil, but she wanted it the way it had once been between them. She wanted Kahlil to love her. And he didn’t.
&n
bsp; Her fear, at first small, but now growing, was that he wouldn’t. Ever. But she clamped down on the fear, reducing it in size until she could breathe easier. She refused to panic, had no intention of subjecting herself—or Ben—to emotional chaos. Once she might have run away from her fears, but not anymore.
Bryn bathed and was dressed by the time Ben awoke. His delight in seeing her brought tears to her eyes. He hugged her and hugged her, holding so tightly she begged him to be gentle, to let her breathe.
“I love Mommy, I love you!”
“I love you. I missed you.” She kissed his mouth, his forehead, the tip of his nose. “How are you? What have you been doing?”
He told her about his activities, chattering as she dressed him and continuing through breakfast, talking a mile a minute about everything he’d discovered since arriving in Zwar. Puppies, and miniature trains, cousins, soccer and card games. Lots to eat. Movies on videotape. Even a ride on a beautiful black pony.
“You’ve done all that in only two days?” Bryn said, indulgently teasing him, enjoying every breathless announcement he made.
They lingered over their breakfast in the courtyard, Ben frequently leaving his chair to creep into her lap for a snuggle.
Now with the dishes cleared away he’d begun to explore the patio garden, first poking at a pill bug he’d discovered in one of the massive clay pots and then sniffing at gardenias planted beneath a tall palm.
Footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Bryn glanced up, hoping it was Lalia with the promised coffee. Bryn had found the adjustment to mint tea impossible, but it wasn’t Lalia with coffee.
It was a man. Broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, darkly handsome like Kahlil but not as tall. Amin stood before her in an expensive light gray suit, white shirt, pewter silk tie smiling. “Hello, gorgeous.”
Bryn’s arm went nerveless, her hand falling to her lap. She tried to stand but couldn’t. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that the welcome I get after all these years?” Amin thrust a hand into his trouser pockets, head bending, dark hair cut close, accenting his beauty. And he was beautiful, more so than Kahlil, the beauty of Hollywood film stars, fine bones, perfect symmetry in his features. But now his elegance and polish repelled Bryn. His external beauty hid the heart of a snake.
