The Sheikh's Wife

“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.

“The palace was never a prison!”

“It felt like one. You left me there alone, trapped in the harem.”

“You knew in advance the wives eat, sleep, socialize in their own quarters. You were raised in the Middle East. You knew our customs.”

“But I married you. I expected to be with you.”

“And you were, at night. I had you brought to me most evenings, if I wasn’t away on business, or obligated to entertain.” He drew a deep breath, his composure also shaken. He pressed knuckles to his temple, his jaw rock-hard. “Regardless of your feelings about the palace, we can’t afford to take chances with your safety. The problem with being a princess worth millions—billions of dollars—is that people will come at you from every direction.”

“No one even knows I’m your wife!”

“They will.”

The assurance in his voice sent shivers down her spine. They will because he’d make sure people knew she belonged to him, he’d make sure no one like Stan could ever grow fond of her, make sure she remained alone in the ivory tower. “You’ll make me a prisoner in my own home.”

“The price we pay for being rich.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she averted her head.

“Your parents were killed by extremists,” he continued more softly. “You, of all people, should know that the world is dangerous.”

“And I’ve chosen to live without fear.” Once she left Zwar she turned her back on exotic locales and wild adventure. No more nomadic travels. No more yearning for far-off places. Her parents’ instability had destroyed their family. She wouldn’t do that to Ben.

“I will not become someone else just to give you peace of mind,” she added hoarsely, unwilling to remember the bomb blast at the marketplace or the horror of her parents’ death. She’d been sent to Aunt Rose in Dallas, and Rose had been wonderful. Thank God for her aunt’s warmth and support.

She felt rather than heard Kahlil move behind her. He walked quietly, stealthily, like a big cat. Beautiful and oh, so lethal.

“And I will not let a hair on your head be harmed,” he murmured, reaching out and drawing her toward him.

She tensed and he kissed the back of her neck.

His lips against her skin, and it was the most amazing pleasure she could imagine.

A shudder raced through her, nipples hardening, heat filling her belly. Just a kiss and she wanted him. Just a touch and she started to melt.

Her nerves screamed. Hot tears stung her closed eyes. She wanted to feel his hand on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs.

Slowly he plucked the tortoiseshell pins from her coiled hair, combing the long tangled strands smooth. “Not a hair,” he repeated, lifting the light gold strands, fingers caressing the silky length. “Despite everything, I still want you, I still want to love your body.”

“No.” It was a desperate denial, her lips twisting as shudders of feeling traveled the length of her spine. She felt warm where she’d been cold. Soft where she ought to be hard. Resist him. Resist him!

“Yes. And I forgive you,” he added, kissing her nape again, creating fresh pleasure, more intense sensation. His hands slid to her shoulders. He held her securely. “I forgive you and want only to have you home again.”

His words cut her, deep stabbing wounds, reminding her of the secret she’d worked so hard to keep from him. She’d spent the last three years denying she’d ever been part of him, ignoring that her child, their child…

But his home would never be her home, not after what Amin had done. Not after what she had done.

Kahlil’s lips moved across her nape and Bryn closed her eyes, head falling forward, caught up in the rawness of her emotions. Need flamed inside her, need to be held, touched, loved. Stan cared for her but it had never felt like this. Never had the power, or the passion.

The old kettle began to boil, the little cap whistling softly. “We have to move on,” she choked, the air aching inside her lungs, her heart as fragile as a delicate glass ornament. Remembering the damage Amin had done, Kahlil would never forgive her betrayal, never understood why she turned to his cousin. “I need to put the past behind. I need to go forward.”