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Kahlil.
Her lashes closed, lips parting beneath the pressure of his, welcoming him, the sweetness and the strength, the memory of their lives. She’d loved him, oh God, she’d loved him, and he’d filled her, capturing her heart and mind and soul.
Kahlil.
His tongue traced the inside of her lip, sending rivulets of feeling in her mouth, her belly, between her thighs. She tensed at the quicksilver sensation, the warmth, first hot then turning icy as he flicked his tongue across her lip again.
Helplessly she clasped his shirt, holding on to him tightly as shudders coursed down her spine. He felt so familiar, wonderfully warm, hard, real. For months she’d wept at night missing him, missing his skin, his scent, his passion for her, for their brief bittersweet year together.
The shiny green leaf of citrus, the spice of cardamom, the tangy essence of lemon…Kahlil…and her body warmed, softening for him, responding, ignoring the revolt of her mind, refusing to remember anyone or anything but the pleasure of being in his arms.
His hand slid from her throat to her breast, his touch igniting fire beneath her skin. Shuddering, she curved more closely against him, seeking more contact, more of his strength.
“Tell me,” his voice rasped, “is this how you respond to Stan, too?”
Bryn felt ice invade her limbs. Stiffening in horror, she pushed frantically at his chest, desperate to escape.
Kahlil laughed deep in his throat. “Oh, don’t stop making love to me, darling. I’m really rather aroused.”
Disgust, remorse, hurt shot through her like sharp arrows, piercing her conscience, reminding her who Kahlil really was. A savage. A savage from a savage land. Hurt turned to anger, the emotion blistering, and her arm swung up, fingers flexing, palm wide. She caught him square on the cheek, the slap echoing shockingly loud in the silent car.
He didn’t move, but she could hear the ring of her hand against his cheek, hear it play again and again in her head. My God, what had she done? How could she have hit him of all people? “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t speak and she sat frozen on the seat, fingers pressed to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. Sick at heart, she stared at his cheek, seeing through the shadows the reddened area of his skin.
“Twice tonight you’ve lifted your hand against me, once you actually made contact.” He spoke without a hint of emotion in his husky voice. “This is not a good habit.”
She ought to apologize again but couldn’t speak, too many powerful emotions swirling within her. She wanted him and hated him. Craved his touch yet longed to wound him. It was madness. Being near him was madness. How could she ever escape him again?
“This habit must be quickly broken. Do you understand, Princess al-Assad?”
“Don’t call me Princess. I’m not a princess.”
“But you are. And as long as you are my wife, you are entitled to my name, my fortune, my protection.”
“No—”
“You can’t escape it. Marrying me has changed your life.” His gaze found hers, light and shadow playing across his granitelike features, even as he stepped from the car, and taking her hand in his, drew her out after him. “Forever.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE phone was ringing inside the house. Bryn could hear it from the walkway and climbed the porch steps quickly, struggling to get the house key into the lock, but her hands shook so badly she couldn’t connect.
“Need help?” Kahlil drawled, a taunt in his voice.
“No.”
The phone continued to ring, the persistence of the caller creating fresh worry. What if it was Mrs. Taylor? What if something happened to Ben? Anxiously she jammed the key into the dead bolt and gave it a fierce turn. The lock gave way and she stepped inside even as the phone stopped ringing.
Kahlil must have heard the frustration in her sigh because as he brushed past her, he touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “If it’s important, love, he’ll call back.”
Kahlil left her to wander the house, moving from the narrow dark hall into her tiny kitchen. It infuriated her that he walked right in without invitation. She followed him into the kitchen where he sucked up air and space, reducing the cramped area to nothing more than a shoe-box.
Spine rigid, Bryn watched his critical gaze examine the chipped painted cupboards and worn beige linoleum. She could tell he’d missed nothing, not even the limp dish towels hanging from the chrome bar.
“If you needed cash, you should have told me,” he said at last, turning to face her, arms crossed over his chest. His folded arms accented the width of his shoulders, the tug of fabric outlined his strong biceps. Kahlil had always been built big, all hard, carved muscle, imposing even by American standards.
She drew a short, sharp breath, her head hurting, her heart hurting again. She wouldn’t let him do this, wouldn’t let his wealth change her feelings. This house had been home to every good memory of her life with Ben. All those wonderful firsts…his first smile, first tooth, first step, first word. Baby powder and lullabies. Mashed peas and sweet gummy kisses. A cocoon she’d spun around them, safe, fragile, wonderful. Their world had sustained her. Until now.
“I don’t need your money.” She choked. “I like my home. It’s cozy.”
“Cozy’s quaint. This is decrepit.”
She pressed her lips together, fighting tears of shame. Of course he’d sneer at her secondhand furniture. In Sheikh al-Assad’s world, everything was the best. The best cars. The best furniture. The best jewelry. But she couldn’t afford luxuries. She could barely pay her rent every month. But Ben was healthy and happy and she wouldn’t trade his security for all the luxuries in the world. “I never asked you in. If you’re not comfortable, see yourself out. You know where the door is.”
“And what? Deprive myself of you? Oh, no, I’m staying.” He leaned against one laminated counter, relaxed, smiling. “However, for a Southerner, your hospitality is shocking. The proper thing would be to offer your guest some refreshment.”
She had an hour left to get rid of him, an hour before Mrs. Taylor returned with Ben. “It’s late, Kahlil.”
“Yes, and a cup of coffee would be lovely. Thank you.”
Her head began to ache, a low throbbing pain that dulled her senses. What point was there in arguing with him? He was deaf when he wanted to be, blind when he found it convenient. Which is what had drove them apart in Tiva. Kahlil immersed in palace affairs. Bryn lost and alone. She’d tried talking to him then, but he hadn’t heard her, just as he wasn’t listening now.
Wearily she put the kettle on the stove, still making coffee the way Kahlil had taught her, French-press style, stronger, darker, richer than American brewed coffee. Some habits, she noted dryly, were hard to break.
“As cozy as you find your house, I think we could do better for you.” Kahlil’s voice, emotionless, echoed in the close quarters. “You need something more appropriate for your position. I’ll hire you a housekeeper. A driver. Bodyguards.”
She didn’t even turn around. “I don’t need bodyguards, or a driver. And I may be poor but I’m an excellent housekeeper. You won’t find a bit of dust anywhere.”
“Just wanted to make things easier for you.”
&nb
sp; “A divorce would make things easier. A housekeeper would merely be a nuisance.”
“Don’t think about the money—”
“I’m not,” she interrupted curtly, gripping the quilted potholder between her hands. She was thinking of Ben, worrying about him, seeing the danger she’d unwittingly thrust him in. “You can’t do this. You can’t take over my life.”
“I have valid concerns about your safety.”
Just then the telephone rang again. Bryn tensed, shoulders knotting. Her skin prickled with dread. She didn’t want to answer the phone, but couldn’t ignore it, either.
Kahlil read her indecision. “Let it ring,” he commanded, authoritative as ever. “It doesn’t concern us.”
Even from where he stood, she could feel him, catch a whiff of his cologne. Musky, rich, reminiscent of the East with cardamom, citrus, spice. It made her picture him naked in the silk sheets of his opulent bed, bronze skin covering sinewy muscle. He was built like a god. He made love like a god. She’d worshiped him.
Then he fell from the pedestal and nothing had ever been the same between them again, leaving her vulnerable to Amin’s dangerous games.
The phone rang again. Four times. Five.
She moved to answer it but Kahlil stopped her, his hands coming down to rest on her shoulders. “Leave the phone. Listen to what I’m saying.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. You must. You’ve kept me waiting three years. I think you owe me five minutes of your undivided attention.”
But she was listening to the phone, silently counting the rings. Five, six, seven. “Please, Kahlil.”
“No.”
She closed her eyes, her body trembling, her heart barely beating. Eight, nine. And then it stopped. The phone went dead.
Brilliant red-hot pain consumed her even as she had a terrifying vision of the future, a future far from her home in Texas, a future of blistering sands and dark veils covering her from head to toe.
“You do not own me, Sheikh al-Assad, and you will not put me in another prison!” she raged, her fury not just at him, but against his family, his customs, his inability to see her as anything but an extension of him.
