The Sheikh's Wife

by Jane Porter

  “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….

  Jane Porter

  THE SHEIKH’S WIFE

  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 o
f 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 re
sponse 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?”