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“Have you always been so cynical?” Lucy said.
“I’m a realist.”
“And I’m a romantic,” Lucy said. “I believe in love.”
I just wish love believed in me.
“Do you believe in the tooth fairy too?” Anwar said.
“I used to.”
“And then what?”
“Someone told me it was a lie.”
“Love is a lie,” Anwar said. “Told in millions of ways—some small and some so big thousands of other lies are used as disguises.
“Says who?” Lucy challenged.
“Love destroys,” Anwar lobbied with angry emphasis.
“Love saves. Love heals.Love is love,” Lucy threw at him. “Even if it’s a made-up thing, I want to believe in it.”
“Like Santa Claus?”
“Yes. Santa is reliable. He always shows up.”
“Once a year? Is that all the love you want? From a man masquerading as a real person.”
“No,” she admitted. “I want more than that,” Lucy said. “My friend Kate met her husband Gianni when he was—what was the word you used?" she paused for extra effect. "Oh, yes, when he wasmasqueradingas Santa. She had survived the most horrific accident the Christmas prior and was plagued by survivor's guilt. Gianni Romano gave her the best gift ever. His everlasting love.”
“You’ve got your present,” Anwar said, gesturing to her pregnant belly. “You’ll have that gift 24-7 for 20 years and more.”
Lucy’s face flamed with hurt.
“It worries me,” he said. “You worry me.”
“I worry you?” she threw at him.
“The child will be a mommy’s boy. He’ll be spoiled rotten and never learn to be a man. And you,habibti, you will always have your cash cow. Giving birth to my heir will be the gift that keeps giving.”
Lucy’s hands flew to her hips. “Is that what you think?”
“What does it matter what I think?”
Lucy straightened, her mouth tight with fury. “You think I got pregnant to extort your wealth, right?”
Anwar’s eyes darkened. “Didn’t you?”
“You run hot and cold,” she said resolutely. “No wonder I don’t know where I stand with you.”
There was silence as they stared into each other’s eyes. She watched in almost complete detached fascination the angry quiver of his thick black lashes, the expansion of his pupils, the flame of anger.
She would meet anger with anger, she decided. No more compliant peacekeeping. No more righteous, silent anger. No more being accused of things she didn’t do.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she exploded harshly. “I built my own career – at least, I did until you destroyed it. Not once, but twice,” she said stonily. “I was doing well reinventing myself as an artist. Until you stole me and imprisoned me in your kingdom as your kept and reluctant bride,” she added for good measure. “And I’m doing my best under excruciatingly trying circumstances to maintain my independence working as your curator and preparing for my exhibition. So don’t you dare,don’t you bloody dareaccuse me of loving you for your money. I’m working my arse off.”
“Loving me?” His eyes widened in surprise.
