The Sheikh's Wife

by Jane Porter

  “What does he like to play?”

  “Cars, trucks, trains and anything to do with a ball.”

  “What did he ask for at Christmas?”

  Bryn’s throat suddenly closed. This one she couldn’t answer, not because she didn’t remember but because the memory was too uncomfortable.

  She’d never forget the way Ben had sat on the department store Santa’s lap and asked for a daddy. Not a new car, or game, or even a puppy. But a daddy.

  The Dillard department store Santa had looked at her over the top of Ben’s head and she felt like a failure. Worse yet, on Christmas morning Ben couldn’t believe Santa Claus had forgotten the one thing he’d wanted—the one thing he’d asked for. Ben cried as though his heart were broken.

  Ben’s tears had nearly broken hers. It was then she decided to accept Stan’s proposal.

  “What did he want?” Kahlil persisted, unwilling to let the subject drop.

  “A family,” she answered softly, unable to meet his gaze.

  “Why didn’t you come to me?”

  She shook her head, hot tears blinding her.

  A minute passed before Kahlil spoke. “I don’t know what makes me angrier. The fact you hid my child from me, or that you’d give him to another man.”

  The pain in his voice undid her, and she ached for the pain she’d unwittingly inflicted on the man she’d once loved beyond reason. She hadn’t tried to give Ben away, but she could see how he’d think that.

  Kahlil made a low, hoarse sound, part disgust, part despair. “You have no excuse, I see.”

  “None that you’d accept.”

  He slowly turned to look at her, his black hair hanging loose. “A real family would have been you and me, Bryn. Us together. That was the family he needed, that was the family we should have been.”

  Fresh tears flooded her eyes. She’d wanted a real family, too. It was the one thing she’d never had, not after her parents died, and it was her dearest wish for Ben, her greatest desire when she’d married Kahlil. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Not for any of them.

  Kahlil’s hands clenched, muscles cording in his forearms. “I praise Allah that finally I have my son. I will make things right for him, but you…you…you’re another matter entirely.”

  Just before takeoff he’d gone into the luxurious bedroom on the airplane and changed, removing the white linen shirt, putting on a black turtleneck and black blazer. Now, dressed in black from head to toe, he looked dark and powerful, a vengeful knight.

  “Afraid, wife?” he murmured, his voice deep, threaded with warmth, curiosity, sensual huskiness.

  He knew that even now, cornered, she responded to his strength, her senses alive, her emotions stirred. Heat crept to her cheeks and she ducked her head, throat working, heart racing.

  And Kahlil, she knew, watched it all.

  A man who had mastered sociology, anthropology, psychology before taking advance degrees in business and law, Kahlil had perfected people-watching to an art. It served him well, his powers of observation, he knew what people were feeling often before they recognized it themselves.

  He knew her desire, her fear, her guilt. He knew he’d ripped her from her world and dragged her back into his. Going back to Zwar was like a time-travel into the dark ages. It was still feudal even barbaric, in its customs, particularly with regards to women. Yet Zwar was also a sensual place. A place of warmth and passion. Magic and mystery. It was the one place that felt like home. And it had been home. Until she let her insecurities pile up, until she placed her trust in the absolute wrong man.

  Amin.

  If only she’d gone to Kahlil with her worries, if only she’d been more patient, less…needy…

  Trusting Amin had been like putting one’s head in the mouth of a lion. Stupid, stupid immature decision. The lion bit. That’s what lions do.

  Kahlil watched the emotions flit across her face. Hope, anger, fear, despair. He had her worried now. Good. She should be worried. She should be very worried.

  What was she thinking keeping his son from him? What kind of death wish did she have?

  He’d fallen in love with her beauty, her laughter, her intelligence, but now he wondered if it had all been an illusion. Had his head been turned by her prettiness? Was she fair and golden without any substance beneath?

  A shiny gold necklace…a gold gilding over cheap brass.

  He swallowed hard, hands knotting, temper so hot he fought to keep it in check. He felt like a boiling cauldron, anger roiling, anger threatening to burn and destroy.

  His gaze fell on her fair head bowed over the boy’s. She held the child close to her breast, the child’s cheek against her heart, his small lips parted in the bliss of sleep.

  Oh, to be a child again, loved and protected, cradled against the harsh reality of life. Pain flickered briefly within, the flash of memory, another flash, this time of beautiful dark eyes, long dark hair, tears in his mother’s eyes and a piercing cry as he was pulled from his mother’s arms. Mama! I want my Mama!

  He hated the memory and shoved it away, erasing all traces of a past that no longer mattered.

  He’d lost his mother and survived. Ben would survive, too, if that’s what fate decreed.

  Yet seeing them together like this, Bryn and the boy, seeing the child’s love and trust, and his wife’s devotion made his chest tighten. If he came between them, it would destroy both Bryn and the boy. He’d shatter his own family, the very thing he’d vowed he’d never do.

  But he wasn’t the man that married Bryn. He wasn’t a man who loved anymore. He wanted revenge. He wanted to punish. He wanted to break his wayward wife’s spirit.

  It didn’t have to be like this. But she’d made her choice. Now he made his.

  “Was there another man in Zwar?” he asked abruptly, turning from her, unable to look at the Madonna and child image another moment.

  She would pay. Oh, how he’d make her pay.

  “No.” Her whispered voice reached his ears, a catch in her voice, tension in the answer.

  She didn’t answer with confidence. He heard the waver and the hint of guilt. Slowly he pivoted, took a step toward her. “You don’t sound very sure of yourself. Would you like to think about the question a little longer?”

  “I don’t need to think about the question. I was faithful to you.”

  “Sexually?”

  “Yes.” Her voice hardened but red color rushed to her cheeks, heightening the blueness of her eyes, the paleness of her brow and chin. She looked like a painting, a Rueben, with the glow of red against her alabaster skin and the deep sapphire brilliance in her eyes.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “And emotionally?”

  “My God, Kahlil, what kind of questions are these? If you suspect me of adultery then say so, but I won’t play word games or guessing games with you. I’ve given you my answer and it’s an honest answer. I never slept with another man while married to you. I never wanted to be with another man while married to you.” The red wave of color began to recede, her cheeks turning a softer, paler pink, her lips quivering with emotion. “I just wanted you.”

  So why did she leave? His cold, analytical mind wanted to lacerate her tremulous words, cut through the softness to the truth. She was lying. Or she was hiding something. Either way, she’d deceived him and come precariously close to breaking his heart.

  Thank God he’d recovered in time. Rifaat, his valet and personal assistant, had seen to that. Reminded Kahlil of his duties, his obligations, the future. The loss of his father helped focus him. Zwar mourned its leader and Kahlil put his personal crisis behind him to focus on his country.

  His work helped. For a time. Until he’d learned that Bryn was planning to marry again, and all the old emotions returned. The betrayal back, the pain resurfacing, the tangled emotions…anger, shock, disbelief. I loved you. How could you walk away from me?

  It was the angry cry of a child forgotten. And he�
��d felt abandoned.

  Kahlil despised the weakness within him, the need to love and be loved. He shouldn’t feel such a need for people, or relationships. His father had never married again after his mother was gone. Why couldn’t he be as strong?

  “What am I doing with you here?” he gritted. “What am I thinking?”

  She sat forward, expression brightening. “You can turn the plane around. It’s not too late. We haven’t even crossed the Atlantic yet.”

  Her eagerness to escape infuriated him all over again. Who was she to make decisions? She ran away. She left him. She may have even cheated on him.

  “If I send you back, I send you alone.”

  She looked confused, forehead furrowing and then suddenly she understood. “And Ben?”

  Kahlil felt cold, hard, strong. “He is the crown prince. One day he will inherit my title, and position as leader of my people. He, of course, remains with me.”

  She stirred, panic in her eyes, panic in her sudden restless motions. “I’ll go to the ambassador—”

  “And what do you hope the ambassador will do? The child is mine. As his father, I have rights. Not even the American government will argue that point.”

  “They won’t allow you to keep him from me!”

  “Of course not. And I have no intention of keeping you and the boy apart. You are free to come and go, visiting as often as you like, but Ben will remain at the palace in Tiva.”

  “Without me?”

  “He’s young. He’d adjust.” He heard the harshness in his voice and he didn’t care. She’d deprived him of the first three years of his child’s life. She deserved whatever she got.

  “You’d break his heart.”

  “Hearts mend. Wounds heal. I know.”

  “And knowing what you know, you’d still hurt him like that?”

  “You are in no position to lecture me. You were never going to let me be part of his life. You were determined to keep him to yourself.” His upper lip curled, a primal snarl he couldn’t conceal. “In a few years Zwar will be his home, and my people his people. Ben will love the adventure of it, and he’ll be blessed with wealth, position and opportunity.”

  “You can’t buy him, or his affections!”

  He shrugged, glad to see her squirm. He’d shaken her.

  “I want to call the ambassador,” she demanded. “Now.”

  “I’m sorry. The phone isn’t working.”

  “That’s not true. You made some calls earlier.”

  “But that was earlier. This is now.”

  “Kahlil, you have no right—”

  “I have every right!”

  His voice thundered, waking Ben. Bryn tried to hush her son back to sleep but Ben was definitely awake, lifting his head and sleepily gazing around the cabin.

  “Are we there yet?” he asked with a yawn, brown eyes blinking, a worried crease between his jet-black eyebrows.

  “No, not yet,” she soothed, pressing a kiss to his forehead, silently cursing Kahlil for waking Ben, and waking him in the middle of a fight. This is exactly what she wanted to protect Ben from. But Ben wasn’t about to go back to sleep, not when he sensed so much tension in the air.

  Tipping his head back, he stared into her face, one small hand reaching out to touch her mouth. “Why are you yelling?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to reply that it was Kahlil yelling, Kahlil being impossible, but she couldn’t say that, none of it. Whatever her feelings were for Kahlil, she couldn’t allow them to influence Ben. He’d need to establish his own relationship with Kahlil, without prejudices from her.

  “Was I yelling?” she murmured, struggling to modulate her voice, and calm her racing pulse. This was a long trip, a long night, she had to get her emotions under control.

  “Yes. You were yelling at that man.”

  That man. Your father.

  She looked up, pained, her gaze settling on Kahlil. In his black turtleneck and his blazer, Kahlil looked darkly forbidding, his beautiful features hard, his expression contemptuous.

  “I’m sorry,” she answered. “I shouldn’t yell. It hurts peoples ears, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Ben agreed, sitting up and wrapping his small, cool fingers around hers. “Who is that man? Why is he with us?”

  Pain tugged at her heart. She couldn’t lie, couldn’t ignore the question, either. Ben needed to know the truth, and he’d find out soon, if not now, then quickly after they landed. Far better to hear it from her.

  “Ben, this is…your…” Her gaze lifted, her eyes meeting Kahlil’s. She found no warmth in his expression, no compassion in his golden eyes. Bryn dropped her gaze, focusing on Ben, trying to blot out the image of a seething Kahlil. “Ben, this man, he’s your…is your…”

  “Daddy.”

  Kahlil said it, completed the sentence, his voice crackling with anger.

  It wasn’t the way she wanted it said. Not with so much anger and force. Not with that kind of arrogance, either.

  “Yes,” she hurriedly agreed, hoping to soften things, ease the tension. “He is your daddy. We were married a long time ago and lived in a beautiful desert.”

  “A beautiful desert?” Ben looked past Bryn to Kahlil. “In a tent? With camels?”

  “In a palace,” Kahlil replied. “But we do have camels.”

  Ben sat up even straighter, using his palm to push away from her chest. “I like camels.” He looked so serious, his expression exactly like Kahlil’s. “I am Ben,” he said firmly, precisely, dark eyes frowning, black eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “That’s my name. What is yours?”

  “Sheikh Kahlil Hasim al-Assad.”

  “That’s a lot of names.”

  “Not so many. Soon you will have a name like mine, too.”

  “Okay.”

  Okay. That was all it took. Ben accepted it, accepted the new father, the new name, the new home just like that.

  Ben looked at her, touched her cheek with his fingertips. “This is my real daddy?” he whispered, with a swift glance at Kahlil.

  “Yes.”

  “The one I wanted?”

  “The one you wanted, my baby.”

  No one spoke. Bryn’s pulse raced. She could sense Ben’s struggle, his confusion and questions. Everything had changed for him just like that. Suddenly Ben thrust a hand out to Kahlil. “I’m Ben, Daddy.”

  Kahlil’s features hardened, his jaw granite-tight. For a moment he didn’t move, his expression closed and grim. And then slowly, very slowly he reached out with his own hand and took his son’s. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ben. It’s good we’re finally together.”

  Ben nodded solemnly. “It’s been a long time.”

  Kahlil’s dark gaze lifted, his eyes met Bryn’s and held. “A very long time.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE Learjet made its final approach and landed soundlessly on the asphalt runway. Minutes later it came to a smooth stop in front of a low, brightly lit building.

  Before the jet’s door opened, a grim Kahlil emerged from the private bedroom cabin, his Western clothes hidden by his robe, the djellaba, and a white howli concealing his dark hair. Bryn’s stomach did somersaults and she swallowed hard, lumps swelling her throat closed.

  Sheikh Kahlil al-Assad. In person.

  He turned, glanced her direction, his flinty gaze inspecting her hair and dress. “You must cover yourself.”

  “It might seem strange to Ben,” she replied, placing an uneasy hand on the top of her son’s head.

  His gaze met hers and held. After a tense silence, he answered. “It will seem more strange to him if you force me to take action.”

  Kahlil didn’t understand. Ben might be half Arab, but he’d never been exposed to Middle Eastern customs. He didn’t know anything of the language or the culture. “Just give me a chance to explain to him first.”

  Kahlil’s mouth compressed, contemptuously. “I think I should be the one to explain. After all, wearing the djellaba and howli are my custom
s. I understand far better than you.”

  And he did explain, in a matter of thirty seconds, saying without apology that the robe and veil made women special, protecting pretty women and turning them into princesses. “Would you like your mom to be a princess?”

  Ben smiled, a small shy smile, and hesitantly nodded. “Put it on, Mommy. I want to see you be a princess.”

  Kahlil had trapped her. Again. She stood immobile while Kahlil unfolded a long black djellaba and another shorter cloth. His hands moved quickly, settling the robe across her shoulders and then the veil over her head. She felt the brush of his fingers at her temple and then against her mouth.

  Fresh tears filled her eyes. She wanted him, but not like this. She wanted him when they loved only each other, believed only in the other.

  Suddenly he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her mouth, through the thin fabric of the veil. “We’re home,” he said quietly, victorious. “Remember where you are now. Remember who you are now.”

  She couldn’t speak, the air bottled in her chest and the fine hairs tingled at her nape. Fear, fatigue and anxiety overwhelmed her. She felt unbalanced, torn between her own need and Ben’s needs realizing that they weren’t the same and wouldn’t ever be the same again.

  Ben tugged at the black robe and she stepped back to see him. He wrinkled his nose as he inspected her clothes. “She doesn’t look like a princess,” he said, disappointed, even a little disgusted. “Princesses don’t wear dresses like that.”

  She’d read him too many stories, told him too many fantastic versions of Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty. He knew princesses were soft, sweet magical creatures, nothing like the dark robed mother in front of him.

  Bryn would have smiled if the situation weren’t so serious. She curled an arm around his waist, and hugged him to her legs. “It’s okay,” she answered quickly. “The robe is to help Mommy. It’s a costume, something fun and new.”

  “But he said, the daddy said, you’d be a princess. I want you to look like a princess. Take it off,” he insisted, tugging harder on the robe, trying to draw it away from her legs. “Please, Mommy, take it off now.”