“If this is the way you hope to win me over, you’re dead wrong.”

He shrugged in the semidarkness. “I don’t need to win you over, I already own you.”

He touched her again, this time brushing her shoulder with the tip of his finger, gliding over heated skin. Bryn felt a ball of desire coil in her belly.

“Three years I’ve waited for you,” he continued softly. “Three years. You don’t think I’m going to let you escape now?”

“Loving someone isn’t about possession!”

“Who said anything about love? I’m thinking retribution.”

He’s proud, passionate, primal—dare she surrender to the sheikh?

Find rapture in the sands, in Harlequin Presents®

This month, Jane Porter brings you the exotic, erotic story of an American woman reunited with her sheikh husband. His pride has been hurt and he wants revenge; she’s determined not to submit…until they rediscover what brought them together in the first place….

The Sheikh’s Wife
Jane Porter

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

BRYN caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror as she headed toward the front door, the doorbell still ringing as she padded along the carpetless hall. Sheen of white dress, brilliant blue eyes, flushed cheeks. A radiant bride. And she did feel beautiful, more beautiful than she had in years. In just seven short days she’d be a bride again. She’d be Stanley’s wife.

Smiling, Bryn hummed the wedding march as she swung the front door open, late-afternoon sunlight washing over her in streaky gold waves, briefly blinding her.

Blinking, she made out broad shoulders. The high curve of cheekbone. A beautifully shaped mouth. And only one man had that mouth. Her heart staggered to a stop. “Wh…what…are you doing here?”

“Hello, darling. It’s nice to see you, too.”

Time stopped, changed, and for a split second she was somewhere else, spellbound. It was just like the day she met him, the day she reversed her small Volkswagen, and slammed into his silver Mercedes Benz. Her car was totaled. His was merely dinged.

Bryn felt the impact again, the air knocked out of her lungs, her lips parting in shock. “Kahlil.”

“You remembered, good.” He looked amused, but then, his gold eyes always smiled when he was angry. Lifting a sheet of paper, he dangled it in front of her face. “Now perhaps you’ll remember this,” he drawled softly, giving the paper a gentle shake.

Bryn stared at the paper blankly, unable to read the words. Only his voice penetrated the muddle inside her head, his voice still husky, his English formal, the same English he’d learned as a child in an English boarding school. “What is it?”

“You don’t recognize it?”

Her fingers felt nerveless as she clutched the door. “No.”

Kahlil chuckled, the sound warm, indulgent, an indulgence he’d shown toward her early in their marriage when she’d been his prized American bride. “It’s our marriage license. The little piece of paper that legally binds us together.”

She couldn’t speak, her throat swelling closed. He must be out of his mind, she thought, forcing herself to look into his face, meet his eyes.

He didn’t look crazy. If anything he looked calm, perfectly controlled, as though he knew exactly what he was doing, as though he’d planned this surprise visit on purpose.

A week before her wedding…

Her thoughts spun, her brain fogged by shock and fear. What if Kahlil discovered Ben? What if he found out about their son?

No. She’d never go back to him. Never return to Zwar. Bryn drew herself tall, conviction making her back straight, her determination reinforcing her courage. “I don’t understand what that has to do with us.”

“Everything, darling.” He was gazing down at her with considerable interest, thick black lashes fanning his carved cheekbones and the bronzed luster of his skin. “I’ve come to see why you’re getting married again when you’re still married to me.”

Still married to him? Ridiculous. If he thought he could hoodwink her with a silly statement like that, then he had another thing coming. She wasn’t eighteen anymore. She wasn’t a child bride, either. “We’re not married,” she said crisply, disdain sharpening her voice. “We were divorced three years ago.” How could he still refuse to accept their divorce? It’d been three years, more than three years. Three and a half years, actually. “I’m not in the mood for games. Perhaps in Zwar, divorces aren’t permitted, but here they’re perfectly legal.”

“Yes, darling, I understand that much. And perhaps you’ve forgotten I have a law degree from Harvard, an American university, and despite my Arab nationality, I grasp the legality of an American divorce, but we were never divorced.”

There was a quiet menace in his voice, a menace she heard all too clearly. Her head jerked up, her gaze clashing with his. “If this is your idea of a joke—”

“Have I ever been a comedian?”

No, she answered silently, bitterly. He was one man in desperate need of a sense of humor.

“I’m trying to prevent you further embarrassment,” he added with the same infuriating calm. “I considered waiting until you’d arrived at the church, the guests filling the pews. I could just picture your eager groom at the altar, standing there in his black-and-white tux—he is wearing a tuxedo, isn’t he?”

She couldn’t bear to be the brunt of Kahlil’s scorn. She’d witness him level others in the past, but never her. Kahlil had never been anything but protective, generous, loving.

Her heart squeezed on the last one, pained by the unwanted memory. Their marriage had been brief. Too brief but she couldn’t go back, couldn’t undo the past. “I think it’s time you left.”

He put his hand in the door to keep her from shutting it in his face. “I’ve tried to be polite, but perhaps it’s better if I’m blunt. There will be no wedding next Saturday. And as long as I live, there will be no wedding to any man, ever.”

She ground her jaw together, struggling to contain her temper. Maybe in his country men could veil their women, tell them how to dress, what to think, where to go, but not in the United States, and not in her home. “I don’t belong to you.”

“Actually, in Zwar, you do.”

“People are not objects, Kahlil!”

Pushing the door all the way open, he picked her up, hands encircling her rib cage, thumbs splayed beneath her breasts. His fingers felt like fire against her skin, searing straight through the bodice of her gown. Her breasts tingled, her senses responding to him just as they’d always responded to him. He could turn her into puddles of need in no time flat.

Kahlil tipped her backwards just enough to knock her off her feet, and sent her heart racing. “How could you possibly think I’d let you marry another man? How could you think I’d give you up?”

“Because the divorce—” she choked, beginning to feel genuinely frightened, not by him but by the idea of still being married to him. Their marriage was over; it had to be over.

“What divorce?” he demanded.

“The divorce…our divorce.”

The dark hallway threw sinister shadows across his face. “There was no divorce. You never returned the last of the paperwork, and with documents unsigned the divorce was dropped.”

Her mouth dried. Her heart hammered harder. She could feel every ragged beat, every quick painful surge of blood. “Documents?” she stuttered, repeating the word as though it were foreign.

“I contested the divorce, refused to accept that you’d left me. It wasn’t desertion, I told the judge, but a temporary leave of absence. The judge sent you paperwork and you never filled it out. Therefore the divorce wasn’t granted.”

“You bought the judge. You gave him money—”

“Don’t get carried away. Your legal system isn’t all that corrupt. If you want to place blame, place it on your shoulders.”

He’d rendered her speechless, stole her breath, her words, her anger.

Could he be possibly right? Had she somehow let paperwork slip?

Her brain raced, struggling to remember that first year, those horrible months of struggling with the baby on her own. She’d moved a half-dozen times in as many months, did temp jobs on top of her regular job just to pay her bills. Swallowing hard Bryn found her voice. “I didn’t know you could contest a divorce in Texas.”

“In Texas, anything’s possible.”

She suddenly saw him scooping Ben into his arms, boarding his private jet and taking off. He’d have Ben. She’d never see him again. The vision was so awful, so vivid and real, it felt as though he’d thrust his dagger, the one he wore beneath his robes, straight through her heart. “Why are you doing this?”

His gold-flecked gaze slowly moved across her face, scrutinizing. “You married me. You understand the vows. I’m keeping the vows. And so are you.”

“I’ll never live with you again, Kahlil.”

“But you are my wife. You’ll remain my wife.”

She crossed her arms over her chest chilled to the bone. A life tied to him. It would be a life in chains. And Ben…she closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought of Ben trapped with her.

Her lashes lifted, her gaze fixed on her husband’s face. She’d once found him impossibly beautiful. Now she found him impossibly frightening. “What do you want?”

“You.”

Her stomach fell, plummeting to her feet. Never. Ever, ever. She dug her fingers into her bare upper arms, fingers pressing into muscle, nails into firm flesh. “It’s not going to happen.”

He smiled, a small, hard, uncompromising smile. “It will. I’ll bet my life on it.” Kahlil moved to the door, opened it and stepped onto the small cement porch. “I’ll send my car for you tomorrow. We’ll have dinner, discuss the future.”

She lunged toward him, fists clenched. “There is no future!”

“Oh, yes, there is. How does seven o’clock sound?”

She’d have Ben here then. It would be his bathtime, then stories and bed. She couldn’t possibly go out, couldn’t possibly let Kahlil return here, either. “You can’t just bully your way back into my life. If what you say is true…” Her voice fell away. She swallowed hard, unable to fathom such a truth. After a tense silence she forced herself to continue. “I need time. I need to make some calls, and of course, there is Stan—”

“Oh, yes, nice old Stanley Hopper. Your boss, your fiancé, your insurance agent.”

“Get out.”

Shrugging he reached for the doorknob, twisting it open. “I’m staying at the Four Seasons. I won’t leave town until we’ve sorted matters out.” He leaned over, dropped a kiss on her parted lips. “By the way, you look lovely in that dress.”

She’d forgotten all about her wedding gown. Self-consciously she pressed the skirt smooth, the silk delicate and light beneath her fingertips. She’d been trying it on, making sure it didn’t need any last-minute alterations. “I wanted to see if it fit.”

“It fits.” He smiled, eyes glinting. “Beautifully.”

Bryn was still shaking an hour after Kahlil finally left. She’d changed, made a cup of tea, but couldn’t relax, couldn’t calm down.

Kahlil was wrong, he had to be wrong. She wasn’t married to him. She wasn’t his wife. She couldn’t be.

Her thoughts raced here, there, scattering in a thousand directions as she drove to Ben’s preschool to pick him up.

If she were really still Kahlil’s wife, then Kahlil would have a legal right to see Ben. To take Ben.

Making dinner that night Bryn battled to hide her worry from Ben. The cheerful chatter she usually enjoyed grated on her and she was relieved when he finally went to bed and she had some quiet to think.

She paced the small living room, chewing on her thumbnail. The only way she could protect Ben from danger was to keep him a secret, and she didn’t know how she’d managed to hide Ben, but she had to. She just had to.

Bryn took the next day off from work and spent it making phone calls—to the courthouse, to lawyers, to anyone who might be able to help her sort out the facts regarding her divorce. With horror she heard one clerk after another explain that paperwork was indeed missing and that the divorce suit had been dropped over a year ago.

Then Kahlil was right. The marriage, their marriage, still existed, under Texas law.

It took her another two days to accept the terrible truth. Two days of a churning stomach, and two awful, endless, sleepless nights when she cursed herself for not being on top of details, for failing to ensure the divorce was finalized. This was her fault, her fault entirely.

Finally, heart aching, Bryn called Stan and broke the news. He immediately drove over and they talked for hours but in the end the facts remained the same and there was nothing they could do but postpone the wedding. Stan behaved like a true gentleman, offering no reproaches, just promising his full support.

But after he left, and the house was silent again, Bryn knew she had one last painful phone call to make.

She called the Four Seasons Hotel and was put through to Kahlil’s presidential suite. If he sounded surprised to hear from her he gave no indication. But Bryn wasn’t about to chitchat. Her voice cool, her tone formal, she suggested they meet the following night for dinner and named a popular Dallas restaurant.

Kahlil offered to send a car, she refused. She’d drive there, she told him, drive home and that would be the last time she’d see him again.

But dinner the next evening didn’t start off the way she’d planned. First her car wouldn’t start, and then instead of dropping Ben off at the baby-sitter’s house, she had to call and ask the sitter to come for Ben. Finally she was forced to phone Kahlil and leave word at the restaurant that she’d be late due to car difficulties. Before the taxi arrived, a black limousine pulled up in front of her house. Kahlil. She knew it without a glimpse of him, knew it without a word from him. She felt him. Felt his strength, his anger, his conviction.

From the living-room window she saw him step out of the back and stand next to the limousine’s open door. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply waited, and in his aggressive stance she saw ownership. He was stating his belief, that she was his, and only his.

Kahlil wasn’t going to go away. He wasn’t going to leave her alone.

The black limousine sailed on and off the freeway, winding through traffic but Bryn couldn’t concentrate on anything. She heard Kahlil say he’d changed their dinner reservation to another restaurant, a quieter one, more conducive to conversation. He said something about taking care of unfinished business but she couldn’t think about that, couldn’t possibly consider anything between them unfinished. In her mind they were done. Dead. Over.

Not by her choice. It had never been her choice.

The limousine dropped them in front of an exclusive Dallas restaurant, a restaurant requiring membership, and a critical screen before a member could be accepted.

The restaurant entrance was so discreet it looked like a warehouse entrance. However, Bryn found that behind the plain concrete walls and studded steel door, the restaurant walls had been painted in gleaming shades of blue and gold and the gold-leafed ceiling glittered with dozens of extravagant crystal chandeliers.

“Hungry?” Kahlil asked, his hand resting on the small of her back.

She felt every muscle in her tighten, her body snapping to response and Bryn jerked away from him, shocked by her sensitivity. She shouldn’t still feel this way. She shouldn’t still feel anything. “No.”

The maître d’ murmured polite greetings, ushering them to a curtained booth. The heavy drapes could be closed, making the table more intimate, if required.

Seated, Bryn’s gaze darted to the thick purple drapes, praying they’d remain open, tied back with the gold tasseled ropes. Kahlil ordered drinks for them, and an appetizer. Her hands shook beneath the table. She struggled to breathe normally.

“Smile,” he said, leaning back against the plush seat upholstery. “You look like you’re being tortured.”

“I am being tortured. This is torture.”

“How far we’ve come,” he mocked, dark head tipping, black lashes lowering as he studied her grim expression. “Once you would have died for me.”

I almost died living with you.

But she didn’t say it. He knew nothing about her last night in Tiva, or her friendship with his cousin, a friendship that proved to be a terrible, nearly tragic mistake. “You can’t take over my life, Kahlil. It’s been three years, three and a half years, since we were together. I’ve changed—”

“Yes, you’ve grown rebellious.”

“I’ve just grown up. I won’t take orders from you anymore.”

“I never had to order you to do anything. You did everything for me,” and his accented voice caressed the word everything, “eagerly.”

Her stomach clenched. She wouldn’t think about the past, wouldn’t think about their old relationship. “Kahlil, I want a divorce and I am going to file for one first thing in the morning. Stan knows an excellent lawyer and he and I will be married eventually.”

Kahlil made a rude sound, deep in his throat. “I hope your Stan is a patient man because he’s going to be kept waiting a very long time. I’ll tie you up with every legality I can. You name it, I’ll do it.”

She stared at him as though he were the devil himself. “Why? What have I ever done to you?”

His golden gaze raked her bare shoulders and simple black dress. “You broke your word.”

So that was it. This was just about revenge. About inflicting pain. Fear balled in her stomach and she realized yet again how dangerous this was for Ben.

The appetizer arrived, a savory baked crab dish with buttery crumbs and cheese. Bryn normally loved crab but at the moment her stomach was so queasy she could barely tolerate the smell, much less eat. Kahlil, she noticed, took none, either. “I thought you were famished.”

“I am. I’m waiting for you to serve me.”

As if she was one of the women from his harem! Incredible. “You are not helpless, Sheikh al-Assad!”

“But why should I serve myself when you are here to serve me?”

She glared at Kahlil, resenting his beauty, the black hair, the strong brow, the elegant sweep of cheekbone. She’d fought so hard to free herself, ripped her heart in two to escape him. It had taken her years to move forward and now that she finally was ready to marry again, he’d returned.

Treacherous man. Man that could disarm her with just a glance from his beautiful eyes. She’d loved him too much, needed more from him than he could give.

Blindly she stumbled to her feet, her long black dress tangling between her legs. His hand snaked around her wrist and drew her roughly down again. “You are not excused.” His dark eyes flashed at her, deep grooves etched on either side of his imperious mouth. “You did not ask my permission to leave the table.”

“I’ve never asked your permission for anything and I’m not about to start now!” Good God, who did he think he was? Bryn threw her head back, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I can’t believe I once imagined myself in love with you. What a fool I was!”

“You didn’t imagine it. You did love me.”

“Did,” she repeated bitterly, “as in past tense. I only feel hatred for you now.”

“Love, hate, who cares? I’m more interested in ensuring you honor your vows.” His anger emanated from him in great silent waves. “I realize you were very young when we married but I’ve given you time to grow up. Three and a half years. Now I’ve come to bring you home.”

“Zwar is not my home!”

He snapped his fingers. “Semantics,” he said brusquely. “I’m tired of debating. The fact is your place is in Tiva, at the palace, bearing my children.”

“That is one scenario which will never happen.”

“You think you’d be happier married to your pathetic little insurance agent? I’ve had my intelligence look into him and he’s a man without fire, a man without drive—”

“And I love him.”

“I don’t care. You can’t have him.”

Anger swept through her, anger so strong that she lifted her hand and took a swing at his face. He caught her by the wrist just before she struck his cheek. “Have you lost your mind?”

Her wrist tingled from the tightness of his grip, his fingers wrapped viselike around her fragile bones. “Leave Stan alone. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“But you do. You’ve insulted me, and my family. You had a responsibility—you were Princess al-Assad—and you abandoned my people.”

Her wrist began to throb. Tiny pinpricks flashed against her closed eyelids. “Please, release me.”

“I expect an apology.”

“You’re hurting me.”

His nostrils flared, his dark eyes flashing, but he opened his fingers, freeing her wrist. She drew her arm back to her lap and stared at her wrist, seeing the livid marks of his fingers against the paleness of her skin.

Kahlil dragged the heavy velvet drapes closed. The violet-purple fabric fell in deep inky folds, hiding them from the rest of the restaurant.

He was pulling her back into his world, forcing her to submit. She couldn’t let him. She wasn’t just his wife. She was a mother, Ben’s mother.

The tears that she’d fought so hard to contain trembled on her lashes, slipping free. She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep control.

“Do not cry,” he said roughly. “I won’t have my wife weeping in public.”

“You’ve drawn the drapes. No one can see.”

“I can see.”

Everything about him was so hard. Every word sounded harsh. She clamped her jaw shut, refusing to engage in a battle of wills with Kahlil. He was a far better debater than she. He was far better at everything than she, but that didn’t make his needs more important, his feelings more correct.

Kahlil must have accepted her silence for submission as his hard expression gentled a fraction. “If you don’t want a fight, don’t provoke me. I didn’t travel all this way to be scorned by a woman.”

Had he always been so arrogant? So damned condescending? Maybe once she’d found his machismo attractive but now it filled her with terror. Terror not just for herself, but Ben, and Ben’s future.

If Kahlil knew he had a son, he’d insist that Ben be raised in Zwar, his small oil-rich kingdom in the Middle East. Zwar was beautiful but far removed from the freedom she and Ben knew in Texas.

Abruptly Kahlil leaned forward, grasped her chin, drawing her toward him. She nearly flinched, inwardly shrinking from his touch, but steeled herself outwardly, not wanting him to know how strongly he affected her.

Yet when he stroked her lips with the pad of his thumb, her whole body shuddered, a response she couldn’t possibly hide from Kahlil.

“You’ve become quite skittish,” he drawled, clearly intrigued. “Doesn’t Stan ever touch you?”

“My relationship with Stan is none of your business.”

“A bold answer for a woman in a precarious position.”

Her lips twisted, her smile forced. She ignored the truth in this, realizing she was indeed caught, but pride overwhelmed her common sense. She couldn’t back down. “I have changed, Kahlil. I’m not the girl you married.”

“Good. Then we both have adjustments to make. I’m not the man you married, either.” He smiled without humor, his gaze never wavering from her face. “And you have changed. You’ve grown more beautiful.”

“Don’t flatter me.”

“I’m not flattering you. I’ve met a lot of women in my life, but I’ve never met another woman like you. No one with your sweetness, softness—”

“Stop.”

“Your pale, flawless skin. Your eyes, the dark blue of precious sapphires. Your mouth softer than a rose.”

Her spine tingled, her skin prickling. Don’t listen to this. Don’t let him get under your skin. You’ve survived him once. You can do it again. “You only want me because you can’t have me.”

His fingers opened, freeing her, and his smile remained the same. But his eyes looked harder, the glints brighter. “I can have you. I just haven’t been aggressive.”

No, he’d never been aggressive with her before tonight, but she suddenly knew he could be extremely ruthless, correctly reading the menace in his hard features, and danger in the crooked curve of his mouth.

His smile faded. “Does Stan know you’re a flighty little wife?”

Oh, low blow. “He knows I left you.”

“Did you tell him you left without leaving a note? Or giving me a kiss goodbye? He knows you just took your purse, your passport and walked?”

“He knows I took my purse and ran.” Her gaze locked with his. If he wanted to make it tough, she could play tough. That’s all she’d been doing since leaving Zwar anyway. Cutting coupons to buy breakfast cereal. Shopping for clothes from a secondhand store. Working double shifts at the insurance agency. She’d shouldered parenthood on her own, and succeeded.

“Did Stan ever ask why you left me?”

“He knew I was unhappy, and that was enough for him.”

Kahlil lifted his wine goblet, swirled the glass, ruby-red wine shimmering in the candlelight. “What an understanding man. Will he be so understanding when you toss him away, tired of that marriage, too?”

His sarcasm was as sharp as razor blades and cut deep. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d run. But she wouldn’t get away from Kahlil, not like that, not this time. “I never tossed you away.”

“No? It felt that way. It looked that way, too. The palace was wild with gossip. The scandal affected the entire kingdom. I didn’t just lose face. My people lost face.”

“What scandal?”

“Rumor has it you were…unfaithful.”

CHAPTER TWO

“NEVER.” Color suffused her cheeks, embarrassment and surprise. How could he think such a thing? How could he think the worst?

The realization that he did, hurt far more than she’d expected.

Early on she’d hoped he’d come looking for her. She’d also hoped he’d discover Amin’s treachery. Instead Kahlil accepted her betrayal, accepted her failure, accepted that she’d been unfaithful. Apparently it hadn’t crossed his mind to even think otherwise.

Then he’d failed her, too. Twice.

Tears burned in her throat, unshed tears she’d never let fall.

Leaving him had nearly destroyed her. It had been the hardest thing she ever had to do. She’d nearly shattered all over again when back in Texas, she discovered she was pregnant.

It was a baby Kahlil wanted. It was a baby he’d never know. The guilt had nearly eaten her alive. Thank God for poverty. It forced her out of bed every morning, forced her to work until she dropped into bed at night, dead with fatigue.

Kahlil might mock Stan and his insurance agency, but working as a secretary at the agency probably saved her life. “Why don’t you just divorce me and get this over with?” she said hoarsely.

“Can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Lifting her gaze, she looked at Kahlil, noting the firm set of his mouth, the intelligence in his warm golden gaze and saw her son there, the same eyes, the same nose, the same mouth. Why hadn’t she ever seen it before? Ben was Kahlil in miniature.

And like that, she saw the awful truth. She and Kahlil weren’t completely strangers. They did have something in common, one precious little person. Ben.

“Too easy,” he answered curtly. “Divorce might be the easiest thing, but I’ve never taken the easy way out.”

She knew what he was talking about, knew the reference to their marriage. He’d warned her ahead of time that their marriage would create an uproar, predicted his family’s reaction, including his father’s harsh disapproval. Kahlil had said there would be hell to pay and she’d shrugged it off, kissing Kahlil’s lovely mouth, his cheekbone, his jaw. She’d been confident she could win his family over, so certain that Kahlil’s love and approval would be enough.

And she was wrong. Very wrong.

Knots balled along her shoulder blades, her back rigid, her neck stiff. Her gaze settled on his hard profile. Once she’d love to kiss the strong angles and planes of his face. She remembered how she lavished extra kisses on the small scar near the bridge of his nose.

She could feel the heartbreak again, thick and sharp. She had loved him. Once. She’d wanted nothing but to be with him. She loved him to distraction, needed the assurance he felt the same. Instead he withdrew, his warmth disappearing behind an impersonal mask. Duty, country, business. Their worlds no longer connected, their lives ceased to touch.

“How badly do you want a divorce?”

His question sent small shock waves rippling through her middle. He was toying with her the same cruel way a cat played with a mouse just before the mouse became a feline supper.

Her spine stiff, her shoulders squared, she lifted her chin, wanting to defy him. She wouldn’t dignify his games with an answer. Let him speak first. Let him be the one to grope for explanations.

But her righteous anger collapsed on itself, even as she confronted the enormity of her problem. This wasn’t a small matter. Ben’s whole future was at stake. Rather than provoking Kahlil, she needed to work with him, humor him. The baby-sitter, Mrs. Taylor, would be dropping Ben off at eleven, less than three hours from now. She needed to be home by then, and she had to be rid of Kahlil by then. “Badly,” she choked.

“Badly enough to risk everything?”

“What do you mean by everything?”

“You’d become mine for the weekend.”

She reached for her water glass, lifted it to her mouth. The rim of the chilled glass clicked against her teeth, icy water sloshing against her lips.

He leaned forward. “I want you for a weekend.”

“That’s your proposal?”

“I’m giving you an opportunity to take control of your life.”

“I spend a weekend with you, and you’d grant me a divorce?”

“If my terms were met.”

He made it sound so easy. Bryn stared at the water drops darkening the white cloth, her mind strangely blank. No words, no sound, no light filtering through her brain. “And those terms…?”

“I want a long weekend with you. Four days. Three nights. City of my choosing.”

She touched one of the damp drops on the tablecloth with her finger. “You want me to be your wife.”

“I want you to be my lover.”

Her head lifted, gaze meeting his. He smiled without a hint of warmth in the eyes. “I want to possess you, enjoy you at my leisure, and make you mine—completely mine—again.”

Something inside her stirred, hunger, awareness. He knew how she responded to him. He knew he could seduce her at the drop of the hat. “You don’t think I have the strength to walk away from you a second time.”

He shrugged. “Did I say that?”

“You don’t have to. I know you.”

“If you please me, I shall process the divorce papers in Zwar. If you cannot fulfill the required duties to my satisfaction, you shall return to Zwar with me and take lessons from the palace concubines.”

“Either way, you win.”

He ignored that. “You’d only sacrifice four days of your life, and surely, Stan’s love is worth at least that?”

Stan’s love was worth more, but Kahlil’s price…

Four days in his bed. Four days making love. A vision of tangled limbs, warm bodies, damp skin flashed before her and she felt blood race to her cheeks. “It’s a humiliating proposition.”

“But it gives you possibilities. Hopes for the future.”

Hopes for the future. Ben’s future.

Bryn draw a deep breath, and actually considered his offer. Just for a moment. Alone, naked, weak. He’d reduce her to hunger and fire all over again and she would need him too much, want him too much. Like before.

It was too risky. For herself, and for Ben. She felt raw, exposed, Kahlil’s proposal peeling off needed protective layers that shielded her heart from the past, and the danger Kahlil still posed.

Something wonderful and awful happened when they were together. She felt more alive, more physical, more aware, but that acute awareness came at a terrible price. Kahlil made her feel emotions and desires that she couldn’t control. It hurt then, it hurt now, and this feeling couldn’t be natural or normal. Emotions shouldn’t run so deep.

“I can’t,” she gasped, dying inside. “There’s just no way.”

His mouth curved, a crooked smile. “You don’t have to give me your answer yet. You might want to think it over a little longer. Take an hour. Take two. After all, it is your future.”

Dinner finished, Kahlil tossed a handful of bills on the table—several hundred dollars, Bryn noted woodenly, chump change to Kahlil and a small fortune to herself. Money like that would pay for new shoes for Ben. A rib roast for Sunday supper. Maybe even a night on the Gulf Coast.

Resentful tears pricked the back of her eyes as Kahlil steered her to his waiting limousine. He had no idea what it was like to struggle and worry about every purchase, every trip to the grocery store, every new month because it meant starting the vicious cycle over again—rent, gas, electric bill, car payment, and on and on until Bryn wanted to scream. It hadn’t helped that Stan was always offering to ease her load, make payments for her, pick up expenses. She’d been sorely tempted but had never accepted his offers, never accepted his frequent marriage proposals, either—not until last Christmas.

She’d finally worn down resisting, reluctantly accepting that bald, bespectacled Stanley would be the right thing. Not for her. But for Ben.

Numbly Bryn slid into the back of the limousine and buckled her seat belt across her lap.

Kahlil directed the driver back to her house.

Bryn’s fog of misery lifted, recognizing the peril of letting Kahlil close to her home. Ben’s toys and bedroom had been packed for the move but there could be knickknacks around the house, photos or artwork she’d overlooked. “Why don’t we go for a drive?”

“A drive?”

She ignored Kahlil’s incredulity. “Or a walk. It’s a beautiful night. Not too humid for the first time in weeks.”

Kahlil viewed her through narrowed lashes, his expression speculative. “Who are we hiding from?”

The fact that he could read her so easily reinforced her fear, as well as her determination to be rid of him as soon as possible. Already she felt as though she was drowning, the water rising, destruction imminent. She had the agonizing suspicion that she might not be able to pull this off. Kahlil was so clever, too clever, and also too angry.

No sooner had she swallowed the sour taste of panic than she pictured Ben as he’d run out of the house earlier, eager to go with Mrs. Taylor. His small white sneakers had slapped the sidewalk, his miniature jeans rolled up at the ankle. She always bought his clothes big, trying to make them last two seasons, maybe even three.

He’d stopped at Mrs. Taylor’s truck, turned around to wave and he blew her an enormous kiss. “I love you, Mommy!”

His zest brought tears to her eyes and laughing, she’d blown him a kiss back. She’d felt a spike of worry then, the kind of worry she felt every time she kissed him good-night, what if something happened? What if there was an accident? What if she lost him? What if…

The what-ifs could drive her crazy.

Fierce love rose up within her, love, determination and conviction. She wouldn’t fail Ben. She’d fight tooth and nail to protect him. He was the one perfect and true thing she’d ever known.

Bryn looked at Kahlil, gaze level, mouth smiling faintly. “Is there something criminal in wanting to walk?”

“You never liked to walk before.”

“Of course not. I was eighteen. I preferred motorbikes and race cars and anything else that jolted my heart.” Like you, she thought cynically. You jolted my heart a thousand times a day.

Kahlil gave the driver directions to a popular downtown park, the night quiet, the streets nearly deserted. The limousine pulled over to the curb and Kahlil and Bryn got out, to stoically circle the square.

The evening, balmy for late September, smelled sweeter than usual, the peculiar ripe fragrance of turning leaves as summer slipped away, fading into fall.

He didn’t speak. She didn’t try, chewing her lower lip, struggling to come up with an alternative to Kahlil’s proposal, one that might meet his need for vengeance without endangering Ben. But no solutions came to mind, immediately dismissing lawsuits and threats, as well as fleeing with Ben. This time Kahlil wouldn’t let her go. He’d find her, and he’d really want blood then.

They passed the fountain and large bronze statue twice with Bryn still overwhelmed with worry.

Kahlil thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “There’s no way out,” he said mildly, casting a curious side glance her way. “You’re not going to escape without settling the score.”

A flurry of nerves made her prickle from head to toe. How could he know exactly what she was thinking? “Score. Proposition. You’re trying to humiliate me.”

“Clever girl.” He stopped walking, facing her, his dark features mocking. “You humiliated me before my family and my people. You’re fortunate that your humiliation will be much more…private.”

“What makes you think I’d agree to this plan?”

“You were once quite daring. You hungered for adventure, for travel and the unknown. Is the great unknown no longer appealing?”

No. Not since becoming a mother. She worried constantly about Ben. His safety, his security, his future. And since becoming a mother, she wondered how her own parents could have dragged her through the Middle East as a small child, living out of tents and the camper van, sleeping at desolate spots along the road. They’d led a precarious life and it had cost them all. Dearly.

Pain suffused her, time and grief blurring her parents’ faces. She remembered them better by photograph than be special memories. “I prefer things simple now,” she answered faintly. “My relationships uncomplicated.”

“Like Stan?”

Her eyes flashed warning. “Leave him out of this.”

“How can I? He’s the enemy.”

“Stan is not the enemy. You’re the enemy.”

He laughed, the husky sound carrying in the darkness. “Four days. Four days and you’d be free. You could marry Stan. Have a family. Get on with your life.”

Oh, how like Kahlil, how clever, how manipulative. Trust the devil to suggest temptation.

But the devil knew her, she acknowledged weakly. He knew how she’d reached for him, again and again, undone by the pleasure of their bodies, so inexperienced that she couldn’t be satiated, her untutored desires wanting more.

But that wasn’t the kind of relationship she had with Stan. Her fault, she knew, but despite her gratitude to Stan, she didn’t enjoy it when he touched her. She told herself that her feelings would change after their wedding, but would they? Could they?

Warily she glanced at Kahlil. Moonlight illuminated his profile. If she did go with him, if she did all that he asked, would he really set her free? Could she trust him to honor his word?

“You can’t pick the city,” she said, feeling trapped, the air squeezing out of her lungs. She wouldn’t breathe until she was free of him. “Four days, three nights. I pick the place, the city and the hotel.”

“The city and the hotel? Now you’re sounding paranoid.”

She refused to be baited, too busy examining the proposal from every angle. A couple of nights with him in New York. How bad could it be? She’d do what he asked and then she’d have her divorce. “New York,” she said. “The Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”

“Paris. The Ritz-Carlton.”

“I won’t leave the States.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“No.” She lifted her chin. “As it is you act as judge, jury and executioner. It hardly seems fair.”

He laughed without kindness. “I guess you’d have to work very very hard at pleasing me.”

Seething, she returned to the limousine, realizing she was only wasting time—his, hers and Ben’s. Kahlil might look like a modern man with his expensive clothes and gorgeous face, but his thinking was still feudal.

The limousine drew to a stop before her house and Kahlil’s driver opened the back door. But before she could move, Kahlil clasped her elbow.

“It might not be safe going with me,” he said softly, “but it might also be the smartest thing you’ve ever done. Everything in life is a risk. Even your freedom.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

Lightly he stroked her bare arm, his touch sending shock waves through her body. “The weekend wouldn’t be without its rewards,” he continued. “You burn for me. You’re on fire now.”

She stared at her arm in mute fascination. She did feel feverish, her skin blazing, her body melting, everything in her coming alive in response to him. He’d always made her feel like this, crazy with need. Right now her nerves throbbed, her pulse racing. He was a drug, sweetly addictive, dangerously destructive, utterly transforming. In his bed, in his arms, she would do anything for him.

Leave her home, change her name, worship at his feet. She lost control when it came to him and that loss of control completely shamed her.

She breathed deeply, dizzy, torn between wildly opposing desires. Run. Stay. Scream. Kiss.

If she went with him, she’d enjoy Kahlil’s revenge. She’d welcome the humiliation as it would be at his hands, in his hands, with his body.

A woman should have more self-respect. She had none.

She could feel the press of his thigh against hers, his hips close, his warmth stealing into her. He promised intense sensual pleasure, a pleasure she’d only ever known with him.

Color banded in high hot waves across her cheekbones. Closing her eyes, she swayed, drawn to him.

He held her in his power again.

Stop it.

Wake up. You can’t do this. Think about Ben. Think about the dangers in the palace. At the very least, think about Amin.

Her eyes opened, her lips parted, and reality returned. “I can’t do it, Kahlil. I won’t. We need to make a clean break of it.” Was that her voice? High? Thin? Panicked?”

“Clean break,” he mocked. “Hardly, darling. You’d remain my wife.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Life’s not fair.”

She averted her face, struggling to hide the tumultuous emotions from him. She was angry, aroused, torn. If she didn’t go away with him, Kahlil would discover Ben. But spending a weekend with Kahlil was like throwing herself in the mouth of a volcano.

It was Ben’s future, or hers.

Ben’s or hers.

Ben won. “No other man would force a woman to submit,” she said bitterly, unable to hide her anger or despair. He’d never planned on releasing her from their marriage vows. He’d given her time but not forgiveness. Space but not freedom. And without a divorce she could permanently lose Ben.

Kahlil didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. They both knew he wasn’t just any man. He was a sheikh, his word in his country was law.

Eyes gritty and hot, she drew a short breath. “God, I hate you.”

“I don’t care. I want what’s mine. And you, wife, are mine.”

He was going to kiss her. She knew it, felt it, just before his head dropped. Alarm shrieked through her, alarm because in his arms she was weak, so weak, it made her sick.

She tried to slip away but Kahlil moved even faster. He blocked the door and leveraged her backward, her spine pressed to the leather seat. “You can’t escape me,” he murmured, his voice husky as his palm slid down her throat, spanning the column, forming a collar with his hand. “But then, I don’t think you really want to.” And with that, his head dropped, his mouth covering hers.

His warmth caught her unawares, his skin fragrant, a soft subtle sweet spice she couldn’t place, but a fragrance that had been part of him as long as she’d known him. The very first time they’d touched she’d breathed him in, again and again, heart racing, spectacular colors and visions filling her head. She saw the full white moon above the bleached ivory sands, the grove of orange trees planted within the village walls, the warmth of the night in the darkest hour…

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.”

“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.

“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.”

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