"Not a good flier, princess?" There was no mockery in his expression, only concern.
She gave him a watery smile, stunned at his compassion. "It is my first.. .flying."
"Your first flight?" His surprise was clear. "I've met your father several times in Munich, L.A., even Madrid.'"
She knew all the facts and figures for those places, could name streets and landmarks, but never had she seen them in reality. "My father believes in unmarried women remaining at home." She tightened her grasp on his hand. "But he never took my mother, either, so perhaps he really believes in keeping all women at home.'"
Expecting to be reprimanded for her disloyalty, she nonetheless gave him an honest response.
For a moment she thought she saw anger flare in the suddenly dark mists of his eyes. "I didn't think that sort of thing was accepted in Zulheil."
"We are a people with much history. Some stay with the old ways and we do not judge." Except sometimes she wished someone would judge.
In fairness to her homeland, Hira knew that if she'd spoken out, she would've been accorded education, perhaps even an independent life. The sheiks for the past three generations had passed laws to ensure all women had the right to follow their own path. But if she'd brought such attention to herself, her clan's honor would've been forever besmirched in a land where honor was everything.
The Dazirah name was a proud one, with centuries of integrity behind it. Just because her father imprisoned his women with his old-fashioned beliefs didn't mean that the rest of the clan had to be tarred with the same brush.
Her uncles had never stopped their daughters from reaching their full potential.
Marc gave her a sharp look but didn't pursue the topic. Instead, surprising her once more, he talked with her of his home. Every word was filled with a smile.
"I'll take you to see the French Quarter once we've settled in. Princess, there are things round there that'll blow your mind." He seemed delighted at the prospect, his eyes turning liquid silver. "I might even treat you to a trip through the bayou, if you ask real nice."
Hira's heart melted at his teasing words, delivered in that deep voice that was as smooth and tempting as hot honey. It was clear that despite the enmity between them, he was attempting to distract her from her fear. Seduced by the light in his eyes, she couldn't help but remember the first time they'd met face-to-face. It had happened at the same banquet where she'd become aware of his existence.
Catching her eye from across the room, he'd smiled at her in that way she now knew to be rare for him, and she'd felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Her lips had curved of their own accord and she'd found herself smiling back at him, drawn by the fiery warmth in his gaze. Yet when he'd bridged the distance between them, she'd turned away with a haughty look. It had only made his smile wider.
At the time she'd told herself that her response arose from her dislike of the proprietary gleam in his eye. Now she accepted that it had had a deeper root. The feminine heart of her had known that Marc was dangerous to her in the way that only a strong, sexy male could be to a woman. Even knowing that, she'd agreed to marry him.
She felt ashamed that, motivated by fear and anger, she'd put die whole blame for their marriage on him when in truth, she had had a choice. It wouldn't have been easy to go against her father, but she could've done it—she'd done it before. She hadn't been a very good wife to him so far, but despite everything, he was trying to help her.
Hope blossomed in her heart. Perhaps, she thought quietly, she'd married a man with whom it might just be worth building a life. Her mother had worried that he was scarred, but the lines on his face did nothing to lesson his raw masculine appeal. If anything, they gave him an even more dangerous male air, enticing the feminine core of her to thoughts that shocked her with their flagrant eroticism.
What did a man's face matter, anyway? Her father was a truly beautiful man, as were her brothers. Romaz could have been a movie star. She had no use for handsome men.
But for a man with a heart?
For such a man.. .she might risk everything.
As they climbed up the steps to his old plantation-style house, its edges softened with hints of Spanish architecture, Marc took his first true breath in weeks. The moist richness of the bayou air swept into his lungs, welcoming and accepting.
From the corner of his eye, he could see the line of cypress trees forever trying to sink their roots into the tiny stream that angled past the edge of his property. As he turned, their branches shivered in the soft breeze and he found himself smiling.
Located far from the bustle of New Orleans, southeast of Lafayette, his extensive block of land, bought to nurture a very private dream, hugged the lush green wetlands that sang a song of welcome to him each time he breathed. He was a bayou brat and damn proud of it. "Your home is lovely."
Hira's sultry voice broke into his thoughts, an unwelcome reminder that this homecoming was different. He'd brought a wife with him, an untouchable Beauty who wanted nothing to do with the Beast she'd married.
Despite their truce on the plane, a truce that had tormented him with images of what could've been, he knew nothing had truly changed.
Fueled by resentment that she was going to turn his solitary haven into a battleground, his response was curt. "Thanks."
He unlocked the door without glancing back at her and walked through with two of their bags, deliberately keeping his hands full. Hira would hardly appreciate being carried over the threshold, even though some primitive part of him wanted to ritualize her entrance into his territory. When she didn't immediately follow, he dropped the bags to the floor and turned around.
She was pulling one of her cases from the back of his rugged all-wheel-drive truck, which he'd had parked at the airport. Her manicured fingernails, painted a soft bronze, looked incongruous doing manual labor. The vividly embroidered hem of her wide-legged cotton pants dragged in the dirt, the golden yellow turning brown as her heels sank through the soft earth.
He considered standing back and watching the show, but some idiotic male instinct refused to allow him to let her hurt herself. No matter what, she was his wife. And Marc Bordeaux looked after those who belonged to him.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he called out, "I'll do it, princess."
She ignored him and began lugging the case up the steps, using both hands. "I can carry this. It is small." As she walked, her midnight-and-gold hair moved around her face, looking soft and silky and touchable.
He'd never seen hair like hers, inky black except for the hidden strands of almost pure gold. Somehow he knew the colors were without artifice, her beauty hypnotically real. The ends had curled in the humidity and he wanted to wrap those curls around his fingers and tug her to him. His body was suddenly heavy. Needy.
He'd never needed anyone.
"What's in it?" he asked, to distract himself. Hadn't Lydia taught him anything? Beautiful women were mirages—there was nothing beneath the glittering surface. Yet he'd married this lovely creature expecting her to be more. He still did.
He hadn't begun annulment proceedings because he couldn't bear to let her go without trying to plumb the depths of the woman behind the sophisticate—the woman he'd barely glimpsed that night when she'd thought herself alone. What he'd felt for her at that moment had been brilliant, and so pure it had shocked him. He wasn't going to give up on that feeling until all hope was lost.
Her face turned pink as she stepped up to the verandah. "N-nothing. Just clothes."
Suddenly he knew she was lying. His anger was as cold as a chilling frost; Blocking her entry into the house, he stood as close as the suitcase allowed. "Don't lie to me. What—did your lover give you a going-away present?"
She blinked at him with those absurdly long lashes and if he hadn't known better, he'd have thought she was trying very hard not to cry. He fought the protective impulse that urged him to haul her into his arms.
"No. No lover gave me
any presents. These are my books." Her gaze was mutinous, but he could see the faint tremor in her lush lower lip.
Her little dig about getting no presents from him hit the mark. He'd taken one look at her, at the secrets in her tawny mountain-cat eyes, and wanted her. Her father's scheming had only speeded up his plans. "Why the hell would you lie about books? What's really in there?"
She glared at him and dumped the case on the wooden planks of the verandah, then knelt down to unlock it. He waited. What did she hope to prove? After the final tumbler clicked into place, she threw him a rebellious look and flung open the lid.
"Books," she said, smoothing the faded cover of one. "I tell you no lies." Her voice shook.
Confused by the vulnerability he could hear, he went down on his haunches beside her. "Why did you try to hide them from me?" He was almost jealous of the reverence with which her slender hands touched the cracked spines and dog-eared pages.
She closed the lid as if to conceal them once more and relocked the case. "My father didn't think that women should have much learning. He threw away my books when he could find them." She wouldn't look at him. shielding herself behind a waterfall of shimmering hair.
Well, hell, that was one answer he hadn't expected. Very carefully, with all the gentleness he had in him, he stroked her hair aside so he could see her face, his hand cupping her cheek. She flinched but didn't move away. "You don't have to hide your books from me."
He felt the shudder that shook her frame. Finally she raised her head, her gaze wary. "Is that true or are you... playing with me?"
The guarded look in those eyes was one he recognized. She expected to be kicked when she was down, to be humiliated and laughed at. That she should expect it of him was infuriating, but he understood that the lessons of a lifetime couldn't be forgotten in a day.
"I promise you it's true." In apology for the way he'd jumped on her, he told her something of himself. "I know the value of books. As a child, I read everything I could find. I'll never begrudge you knowledge." He removed his hand. "There's a library on the first floor. Use it whenever you want."
Pressing her lips tight, she gave a jerky nod. "Th-thank you.. .husband." It was the first time she'd acknowledged his claim over her, and there was no taunt or barb in her voice. Instead he heard a bone-deep vulnerability that threatened all his beliefs about her.
Unsettled, he stood and offered her a hand. After the tiniest hesitation, slender feminine fingers slipped into his.
As she rose, his eyes dropped unintentionally to the skin bared above the modest neckline of her sleeveless top.
Sheened with sweat, her golden skin glowed. Heat flickered to life within him. No matter what his mind knew, his body couldn't understand why he was keeping his distance.
He forced his gaze to her face. It didn't do much good. It was as sensual as the rest of her. Full lips, sharp cheekbones, eyes a strange hypnotic shade of lightest brown that gave her a slightly feline look.
"You are so beautiful," he found himself saying, unable to believe the reality of her.
She gave him a tight smile and tugged her hand away. "Yes. People always tell me that."
It should've sounded conceited. Instead, her tone held such sorrow that he stopped her from heading inside, putting his arm around her waist when she tried to walk past. The heat from her body passed through her cotton top and over him like a secret caress.
"And you don't like that?" He frowned.
She looked at him with those amazing eyes. "I am more than a face and a body. I am Hira. But no one wishes to know Hira. Please, I'm tired."
He released her. Stubbornly clutching her precious case, she moved past him in a wash of soft perfume and an indefinable scent that was uniquely her. As he retrieved the other bags, he wondered if she placed him in the same category as those other people. And, if she did, was she right? He'd brushed aside her claims of interest in economics and thought she wouldn't know one end of a book from another. He'd been wrong on at least one count and that indicated he might be wrong on the other.
Or his beautiful, spoiled wife was playing games with him, trying to mess with his head.
Of all the possibilities, that seemed the most likely. First she freezes him out of their bed, then she comes across needy and scared on the plane, now he sees this tenderhearted hurting creature. Who was the real Hira? Marc hadn't yet made up his mind. He hadn't reached where he had in life by making snap decisions. Then again, he'd asked for her hand before he'd spoken a word to her.
Perhaps, he accepted, there was some truth in her complaint. When he'd seen her on that balcony, had he wanted to know Hira? Had he fallen for the soul of that lovely woman who'd seen magic in the moonlight?
Or had he wanted to own that beautiful creature, wanted to show the world that the upstart Cajun with a patched-up body and face could own something so exquisite, most men would never even dream of it?
It.
His blood chilled. When had he become the kind of man who treated a person as a commodity? When had be become like the rich men he hated, the ones who collected beautiful young women as expendable accessories?
No, he thought. No. He wasn't like them. If he were, he wouldn't have experienced such disgust at his momentarily aberrant thoughts. If he had nothing emotional invested in this marriage, the visceral pain he felt at the thought that he might have to dissolve it wouldn't exist.
Perhaps he could be accused of arrogance, but he'd been treated as a nonperson once. As a thing. He would never do that to another human being.
Not even to his ice queen of a wife.
Three
They'd just finished a largely silent take-out dinner later that evening, when he received a phone call from Nicole, a childhood friend.
"I'll be awhile," he told Hira. "Nic needs some advice on a contract." Used to his help, Nicole had begged him to fly up to New York, but no way was he leaving his new bride to go to another woman's aid. That would be killing his marriage before it began, and the lost, lonely boy inside him continued to catch tantalizing glimpses of his dreams in Hira's eyes.
His wife had no way of knowing that Nicole was like a sister to him. From what she'd revealed of her parents" marriage, he'd bet she'd think he was going to his "other woman."
No curiosity enlivened her closed expression. "As you wish." Despite his attempts during dinner, she'd re-
fused to soften in any way. It was almost as if she were willing him to forget the woman he'd glimpsed in that instant's vulnerability on the verandah.
"You've probably seen Nic on the ads for Xanadu Cosmetics." React, damn it, he wanted to say. Show me you care about this marriage.. .about your husband.
"She is lovely."
Cold as ice, Marc thought once again, furious at himself for hoping for something more. "Perhaps I should've just married Nic instead," he muttered under his breath as he left the room, not intending his new wife to hear the wholly facetious comment.
Hira felt his words impact like sharp stones against her heart, wounding and so incredibly hurtful that she couldn't breathe. She sat there, unable to move for what seemed like forever. Marc had stalked into the spacious living area abutting the kitchen but had left the door open. Though she couldn't distinguish the words, she could hear the deep rumble of his voice.
And occasionally she could hear a low male chuckle.
Clenching her hands on the arms of the chair, she made herself take deep, calming breaths. The feeling of betrayal persisted. She didn't know why, but she hadn't expected that kind of cruelty from the man she'd married. He'd been so gentle, so tender with her feelings on the plane that he'd fooled her completely. And on the verandah...his rough understanding had been her undoing.
So quickly, so suddenly, he'd threatened to win her trust. Terrified of his power over her, she'd retreated behind the only protection she had—an icy facade that was as brittle as summer frost. The whole time that they'd sat across from each other at this ta
ble, she'd ached to place her faith in him, but the part of her that had grown up watching her father ambush, then degrade her mother's pride, had cautioned her to wait before she made an awful mistake. And that bruised part of her had been right. If Marc could cause her such torment now, how much worse would it have been if she'd taken those first halting steps?
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