Lynn Harris - Marriage Behind the Façade

Sydney leaned her head against the window. It was odd to be here, and exciting in a way she hadn’t anticipated. In the distance, stark sandstone mountains rose against the backdrop of the brilliant sky. Date palms dotted the landscape as they rode into the sprawling city. The buildings were a mix of modern concrete, glass and sandstone.

She realized that the hills in the opposite direction weren’t actually hills, but sand dunes. Undulating red sand dunes. Along their base, a camel train trod single file toward the city. It was the most singularly foreign moment she’d ever experienced.

The car soon left the stark landscape behind as they passed deeper into the city. Eventually they turned—and suddenly the sea was there, on her right. They rode a short distance along the coast, with the turquoise water sparkling like diamonds in the sun, and then they were turning into a gated complex.

Malik helped her from the car and ushered her inside a courtyard cooled with tiny jets spraying mist that evaporated before it hit her skin. The air was thick, hot. It wasn’t unexpected, or even anything she’d never experienced before—and yet it was different in its own way.

Or maybe she was just too tired.

A woman in a cotton abaya appeared, bowing and speaking to Malik in Arabic. And then he was turning to her as the woman melted back into the shadows from whence she’d come.

“Hala says that your room is prepared, habibti. You may sleep as long as you wish.”

She’d expected that a servant would show her the way, but Malik took her elbow—no matter how lightly he touched her, she still burned—and guided her into a huge sunken living area and down a hallway that led to a small suite. The outer room had cushions arrayed around a central table, a rosewood desk in one corner and two low-slung couches that faced each other across a fluffy white goat-hair rug. The bedroom featured a tall bed covered in crisp white cotton linens that beckoned seductively.

“I need my bags,” she said, realizing suddenly that she had nothing to change into. They’d left the airport without collecting her luggage.

“They are on the way. In the meantime, you will find all you need in the bathing room.” He gestured to another door. Sydney walked into the spacious bath, marveling at the sunken tub, a shaft of sunlight coming from high up in the ceiling and illuminating the marble. The light picked out the red and gold veins of the stone, sparkled in the glass mosaic tiles surrounding the tub.

“I trust it meets with your approval.”

Sydney whirled, his voice startling her, though it shouldn’t have. She’d known he was behind her, watching her from the door.

“It’s lovely,” she said, swallowing hard. Why did it feel so surreal to be here like this? She’d agreed to come, known it was necessary, and yet she felt off balance, out of her element in a way she hadn’t expected.

And why not? This is Jahfar, not Paris, she told herself. Not Los Angeles.

Malik crossed to her, cupped her face in his hands while her heart thundered in her ears.

She meant to protest, she really did, but her voice froze in her throat.

“There is nothing to fear, Sydney,” he said. “We will get through this.”

When he lowered his head, her eyelids fluttered closed automatically. Because she was tired, of course. No other reason.

He chuckled softly, his lips brushing her forehead while her pulse throbbed. The sound speared into her heart, reminded her of a different time when she still believed in a fairy tale ending with the handsome prince.

“Don’t,” she choked out as his lips moved to her temple.

An instant later, he released her and took a step backward. “Of course,” he said, his voice thicker than it had been only a moment ago. “As you wish.”

Sydney put a shaking hand to her throat, dropping it again when she realized how frightened and helpless it made her seem. She was neither of those things, though she was most definitely nervous. She’d loved him. She’d been through hell because of him. This situation was strange, unnatural.

For them both, she thought. He would probably prefer to be with his current mistress instead of her, the wife he’d thought he was rid of.

“I think it’s best if we don’t … touch,” she said.

He arched an elegant brow. “You are afraid of a little touch, Sydney? And here I thought I was resistible.”

He was mocking her. Naturally. She lifted her head. “There is no purpose to our touching, Malik. We aren’t happily married. We are nothing to each other. Not anymore. I realize I’m an inconvenience to you, but I just want to get this over with. You don’t have to pretend otherwise to make me feel more comfortable.”

His dark eyes flashed with emotion. “I see. How wise you have grown, Sydney. How very jaded.”

“I always thought you liked jaded women,” she retorted—and felt instantly contrite. If she were trying to make him believe they could behave with cool civility for forty days, she’d just failed abominably.

He leaned against the door frame, but she didn’t make the mistake of thinking him relaxed. No, he was carefully—and tightly—controlled. It had been one of the things that had driven her the most insane about him, that ability to shut down his emotions and rein them in so hard that he was nearly inhuman.

“I did not realize you cared,” he said softly. Mockingly, still.

Sydney flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly. “I don’t.”

He straightened to his full height. “Let us not descend into games, habibti. You have had a long night of travel. Bathe, rest. I will see you when you are prepared to be reasonable.”

Her temper spiked at the condescension in his tone. “I’m not playing games, Malik. I came, didn’t I? I’m here because I want this over with. Because I want to be free of you forever.” She flung the last at him, unable to stop herself from saying the words.

His jaw hardened, his eyes flashing hot once more. “You will get your wish,” he growled. “But first I will get mine.”

Her stomach flipped. “Wh-what do you mean?”

He looked so menacing. “Scared, Sydney? Afraid of what I will exact from you now that you are here?”

She swallowed, her throat thick with emotion. “Of course not.”

His gaze slid down her body, back up, his eyes hot on hers. His voice came out as a sensual drawl that made heat flare in her core. “Then perhaps you should be.”

MALIK was in a bad mood. He sat in his study, working on minute details that were mind-numbing and boring and meant to distract him. They did not.

He shoved back from the computer and turned his head until he could see the sparkle of the sea beyond the windows.

She was here. His errant wife. The one woman he’d thought might be different, might make him happy—but who, instead, had run away from him. He was not accustomed to women running away from him.

It had been a singular moment when he’d realized she’d truly gone.

He’d raged. He’d made plans. He’d sworn to go after her and drag her back by force if necessary.

And then he’d thought, no.

She’d walked out. Let her be the one to come back. Instead, she’d started divorce proceedings.

Yet he still wanted her. His body desired hers, regardless of his wishing otherwise. From the moment she’d opened the door to the house in Malibu, he’d wanted her with a fierceness that surprised him after so much time.

Especially considering how very angry he still was with her.

But she’d looked so virginal, so pure, in her white jacket and pale pink dress. Her long legs had been displayed to perfection, enhanced by the nude-colored high heels she’d worn. He’d imagined those legs wrapped around him as he thrust into her body.

It had taken every ounce of control he’d possessed not to press her. Because he’d known that she still wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her.

Her body wanted him, but her heart did not. And that was what had stopped him, both then and today.

He squeezed the pen he held until it cracked, its jagged edge slicing into his finger. A drop of blood welled on the tip. He grabbed a tissue from the box sitting on his desk and swiped the blood away.

Sydney Reed—Sydney Al Dhakir, he corrected—was so beautiful, so very luscious, so bad for his control. From the first minute he’d seen her, he’d wanted her. She’d been aloof … but only at first. When he’d finally gotten her into his arms, she’d burned so hot he’d known that once with her wasn’t enough.

She probably wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, but he couldn’t actually remember another being more compelling to him. Her skin was as pale as milk, her hair the color of the red dunes of the Jahfaran desert. Her eyes were like a rain-gray sky, the kind of sky one often found hanging over Paris in winter.

While others might find rain depressing, he found it unbearably lovely.

Especially when it was reflected in her eyes.

Malik swore softly. He’d known, when he’d impulsively married her, that it could not last. Because he’d married her for all the wrong reasons, not least the utter dismay it would cause his family. That, and he’d wanted her with a fierceness that had shocked him.

The phone clanged into the stillness, making him jump. Though he could let his secretary get it, he preferred the distraction to his chaotic thoughts.

“Yes?” he barked into the receiver.

“I hear that your wife arrived today,” his brother Adan said.

“That’s correct,” Malik replied somewhat stiffly. “She is here.”

He’d kept her away from Jahfar for a reason. Now that she was here, he had no choice but to share her with his family. Though he’d thought there might be a bit more time before that happened. Malik frowned. His brothers would be polite, but his mother certainly would not.

“And do you plan on bringing her to the palace?”

Malik ground his teeth. He hadn’t told Adan why Sydney was here. He hadn’t told anyone. “Perhaps in a few days. Or not. I have business in Al Na’ir.”

“Surely you can spare an evening. I wish to meet her, Malik.”

“Is that a command?”

There was no pause whatsoever. “It is.”

How very easily Adan had slipped into power. He hadn’t been the heir to the throne, just as Malik had not been a part of the ruling family, until their cousin had died in a boating accident and Adan suddenly found himself the heir to their uncle. When their uncle died a year later, Adan had ascended the throne as king.

He’d been a good king. A just king.

“Then I will bring her. Though not today. She is tired from the journey.”

“Of course,” Adan replied. “We will see you for dinner tomorrow night. Isabella looks forward to it.”

“Tomorrow night then.”

Their goodbyes were stiff, formal, but Malik had expected nothing different. They’d had such a barren childhood, with nannies and a kind of rigid formality that was not conducive to warmth between them. Oh, Malik loved his brothers—and his sister—but theirs was not an easy relationship.

He wasn’t quite sure why. There’d been no huge trauma, no major falling out. Just a quiet distance that seemed impossible to breech. The more time moved on, the wider the chasm.

Perhaps that was why he’d been so drawn to Sydney. She’d made him feel less alone, and he’d been addicted to that feeling. But that was before she’d betrayed him, before she’d proven she was no different than anyone else in his life.