by Jane Porter
The valet didn’t answer and Kahlil pushed off the pillar and approached the desk, lifting the documents to read them yet again. “At least she’s a better mother than a wife.”
Still, Rifaat said nothing.
Wearily Kahlil tossed the papers back onto the gleaming surface of the desk. “Has my cousin arrived yet?”
“No.”
“Let me know when he does. Good night.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Kahlil crouched next to the small bed in the nursery and gently drew the covers back. The child stirred, curling his hand more closely beneath his cheek, nestling deeper into his pillow.
Little boy, my boy. Kahlil’s eyes burned, and with a hard swallow, he accepted that it could not continue like this. It would not continue like this. There ought to be a sanctuary for children, a sacred place to protect their innocence. Their tenderness.
Perhaps if he had been protected as a child he might be a different man today…he might be a different leader.
Kahlil’s palm rested against his son’s head. The child’s hair felt silky, his scalp felt warm. Kahlil could feel his son breathe, feel his son’s innate strength.
Protect the child. Protect his life.
Calmer, feeling the first hint of peace in days, Kahlil scooped Ben into his arms and stood. The boy weighed nothing but meant everything.
Footsteps sounded in her room. Bryn lifted her head, squinting in the darkness as her heart raced. Someone was in her room. Someone was moving her way.
She swung her legs out from beneath the covers and rubbed her eyes. Full of fear she was reminded of another night, another intruder.
“Bryn.”
Kahlil.
Her husband’s deep voice, his English crisp, formal, echoed in the dark. “Are you awake?”
“Yes. What’s happened?”
“Nothing. Shh, he’s still asleep. Don’t wake him.”
Suddenly she knew. Bryn nearly lunged from bed, flinging the covers back. Kahlil had brought Ben back to her!
Kahlil placed Ben on the mattress next to her and drew the silk comforter up, covering them. Speechless, Bryn pressed the back of her hand to Ben’s warm cheek. He was real. He was here.
Warmth filled her. A dizzying hope. “Thank you,” she choked, the words grossly inadequate. “Thank you so much.”
Kahlil nodded, and without speaking, headed for the door.
“Kahlil, what does this mean?”
Her voice stopped him. “I don’t know.” He hesitated, his features shadowed, his expression reserved. “Maybe it means we call a truce. No more fighting. At least, not over our son.”
“Never again,” she swiftly agreed. “Kahlil, thank you again. I mean it. From the bottom of my heart—”
“I know.”
He stood framed in the doorway, the soft yellow light of the hall illuminating his height and strength and his honey-gold skin.
He looked like a prince from a medieval storybook, darkly handsome and yet so alone. She realized bleakly that he had no one, not since she had left him.
He hesitated in the doorway. She felt his tension, his silence throbbing with unspoken meaning.
The ache in her chest was so strong it made it nearly impossible to breathe. She wanted to go to him, touch him, hold him, love him. But she was afraid, so afraid of the distance between them.
“Good night, Bryn. I hope you sleep well.”
“I will now.”
“So will I.” He turned, and left, heading off alone into the dark of the night.
Bryn cuddled Ben to her but she couldn’t sleep. Minutes passed, a half hour crept by, and then finally an hour, but it wasn’t a peaceful rest. She felt anything but peaceful, not when Kahlil punctuated her thoughts.
From the moment she ran into Kahlil in the Dallas parking lot, she’d felt the impact of the fender-bender accident reverberate through every part of her life.
When Kahlil climbed out of his luxury sedan, the shock wave deepened. He had said words that her mind didn’t capture. She couldn’t focus on his speech, only on his face. She’d known him sometime, somewhere. Recognized him from a previous life. She couldn’t tear her gaze away. Entranced by the symmetry of his brow, sweep of cheekbone, the strong aquiline nose, he was the most amazing man she’d ever seen. Like Valentino from the old movies, he seemed perfect.
Kahlil had been astonished that she not only knew where Tiva was, but that she’d spent her first thirteen years in the Middle East, most in the Zwar desert. They’d gone for coffee and the one coffee became an all-night conversation.
Disarmingly honest, he told her she wasn’t like most women in his country. She’d thought he meant it as a compliment. Now she knew better. Their cultural differences would destroy them, if she let it.
Kahlil needed her, but he’d never tell her. Not after she’d betrayed him, and she had betrayed him. She’d become too close to Amin, developing a friendship with an Arab man—Kahlil’s first cousin, of all people!—to answer her insecurity. It hadn’t been enough to be loved by Kahlil. She’d needed endless reassurance, constant proof of love.
Bryn wanted to blame her insecurity on her parents’ death, and the culture shock she’d experienced moving to Aunt Rose’s house in Texas, but she’d felt adrift before the market blast. Truthfully she felt adrift most of her life. She’d never felt at ease with her parents’ nomadic lifestyle, nor their ability to live without friends, and worldly possessions. She wanted a bedroom of her own, pink rosebud paper on the walls, chintz curtains, lots of dolls and stuffed animals on her pillow. She wanted books on shelves, toys stacked in a closet, shoes and clothes tucked in a solid wood dresser.
Instead there had been one knapsack, a half-dozen worn dresses, a battered brown bear. Her parents meant well. They believed they were an example of good values, teaching her that things didn’t matter, making it clear that too many possessions only tied one down. But Bryn wanted to be tied down and longed for the stability of a real house. It was her great childhood fantasy, waking up to discover her parents had bought a two-story house with shingles and shutters and a painted picket fence. There would be kids riding bikes on the street, and girls jumping rope or playing jacks. Bryn would go to a real school and every day she would walk home, carrying her book bag and laughing with her school-mates.
Her parents laughed at her fantasy world, telling her it was the exact thing they’d left behind. No ordinary life for them.
Bryn had spent most of her life trying to be ordinary. Kahlil had not been ordinary. But he’d wanted what she did—stability, security, tradition. And family. They both wanted children. Desperately.
Bryn gently kissed Ben, careful not to wake him. She was grateful to hold him again, soothed by his proximity. But she couldn’t sleep, not when her thoughts revolved around Kahlil.
Tonight, for the first time in years, she’d seen a chink in Kahlil’s armor, and instead of moving in to wound him, she wanted only to protect him. Protect the man she’d once loved, still loved, when he was at his most vulnerable.
She felt a tumult of emotion, even new emotions, a combination of tenderness…forgiveness…regret. Once she and Kahlil had been so sweet together, so full of hope and love. Could they find it again? Could they ever find their way back to each other again?
Bryn slid out of bed, leaving Ben nestled in her pillows and covers, and rang for her maid. She explained that she needed to be taken to Kahlil immediately.
He was in bed, sleeping. Rifaat opened the door for her, giving her access where all else would be denied.
Bryn hadn’t stopped to think, she just acted, responding to the impulse that drove her from her room to his in the dead of night.
Kahlil sat up, the satin sheet falling to his waist. Her heart did a funny double-beat. He looked shockingly sexual. Breathtakingly male, and virile.
Unlike Stan.
Unlike any other man she’d ever known.
Kahlil’s gold eyes, heavily lashed and darkly brooding
, met hers. “Yes?”
As their gazes locked her heart turned over. His eyes undid her. She wanted only to go to him, beg him to forgive her, beg him to love her. Instead she stood stiffly several feet away, feeling the chasm between them, the secrets and mistrust, the mistakes and fear.
He shifted restlessly. “What do you want?”
Her chest constricted. “You.”
Kahlil’s forehead furrowed, an ebony lock shadowing his strong, beautiful face. Slowly he flipped back the satin sheet, making space for her next to him. It was the same thing she’d done earlier for Ben.
She ran to him, climbed into his bed, burying herself in his arms. “Kahlil, I—”
He stopped her, silencing her words with his lips. ‘No,” he whispered. “No talking, I don’t trust words.”
His lips covered hers, and his body moved against her, the hard planes of his chest brushing the peaks of her aching breasts, his hips pressing to her belly. She felt him harden, and he moved her onto her back, his weight braced on his elbows. Fire surged within her, fire and hunger. Only one man could answer this feverish need, and that man was her first and last love, Kahlil.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SKIN still damp, desire finally satiated, Bryn gazed up at Kahlil, waiting for him to speak. She knew there was something on his mind. He had that look, the tension at his mouth, fine creases fanning from his eyes.
She wouldn’t press the issue, if there was an issue. Far better to give Kahlil time. And truly, she felt deliciously relaxed, muscles weak, pulse finally slowing from its earlier furious rhythm.
Kahlil reached for her, running his callused palm across her bare midriff, over her rib cage, his fingers exploring each rib and inch of skin until he cupped one breast, and its rose-tipped peak in his hand. “You were serious yesterday, about staying?”
She stared at his hand on her breast, torn between the warmth stealing through her, the heat surging to life yet again in her belly and between her thighs, and the fear his words created.
“Bryn?”
He still wanted to send her home. Even after this, after the most intimate acts a man and woman could do together.
She closed her eyes briefly. “I won’t go, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Is that what I’m asking?” He kicked back the sheet, exposing both of them to light. His body was hard everywhere, his chest deep, hips narrow and hard, his thigh thickly muscled. He was still so strong. She could see the soldier in him. He’d served six years in the Zwar military. All Zwar men served their country. Ben would have to serve as well.
“Well, isn’t it?” she returned, unconsciously squaring her shoulders, denying her desire to feel him again, be taken again, savored again. He made her feel like a delicacy and she loved his skill, his incredible sexual prowess.
But that wasn’t the issue, she reminded herself, wondering why she’d though Kahlil would ever be anything but an adversary. Truce, indeed! He was still trying to wrest Ben from her custody. “Ben and I stay together. Always.”
“No divorce?”
“Not a chance.”
Abruptly Kahlil leaned forward and suckled one of her nipples. Silvery arrows of sensation shot from her nipple to her belly and she moaned a protest.
Kahlil lifted his head, smiled his satisfaction. He relished his power over her. Relished the control. “So you have no objection then to renewing our vows?”
Renewing vows. Bryn jerked, grabbed for the sheet, feeling the need for protection. “Renew vows…as in marry again?”
He pushed her hand away from the sheet. “Leave it. I like seeing you this way.”
“I can’t think naked.”
“Of course you can. Concentrate.” His gaze turned brooding. “We were married the first time in an American courthouse. This time we’d do it here. A traditional Arab ceremony.”
Marry Kahlil again?
Her mind spun, thoughts racing, her body felt heavy, almost languid.
To be loved by Kahlil again, feel the strength and hunger of his passion not just once, but again and again, to return to his arms, his heart, his—
But he wasn’t declaring love. She wasn’t returning as a beloved wife, but as an object. His property. This was part of his domination, his need for control.
So? A little voice challenged deep inside her. What did it matter? She’d be with him; they’d be a family. Ben would have what he wanted and Bryn—she’d be with Kahlil again, and really, wasn’t that what she wanted?
There was no reason they couldn’t make it work. It had been wonderful between them in the beginning, heaven, sweet heaven before the worst hell.
A clock bonged somewhere in the palace. She felt the weight of time, the weight of the past. The last three and a half years had been so long, so incredibly difficult. She couldn’t imagine going back to that kind of life again. “If we were never divorced, why do we need to renew our vows?”
He reached out, plucked a long white-gold tendril from her shoulder, and allowed the hair to slip between his fingers. “It’s a show of faith.”
The intimacy of the touch, the ease with which he touched her, created a hunger inside of her, her belly tightening with need. If only he’d touch her again, her cheek, her breast, her belly, her thighs. She sucked in a breath, appalled by the intensity of her desire.
“Is this for Ben’s b…benefit?” she asked, curling her fingers into her palms, her limbs melting, her body melting.
“Ben, and my people.”
His people. But not her. Never her.
It stung, but better that he be honest than let her get her hopes up. This way she knew where she stood. This time she was not the beloved, but the obligation. Not the jewel in his crown but the mother of his son.
Kahlil caught her chin in his fingers and turned her head to face him. “You have a problem marrying me again?”
“No.” She could see nothing now but Kahlil’s face. Her gaze met his and she stared into his eyes, mesmerized by gold flecks and the determination she saw there. He exuded intensity, and conviction. He was brilliant, complex, emotional. He fascinated her mind and confounded her heart.
Leaning forward Kahlil’s nose briefly touched hers, his lips a breath away. “You must be quite sure, Bryn. I won’t suffer a runaway wife again.”
His lips brushed hers. A shiver raced down her spine.
“Hmm?” he murmured, his fingers splaying against her jaw, his palm cool and strong against her throat.
She pressed her trembling lips to his. She was unable to hold his words in her mind; her brain was lost to hunger.
His mouth, firm, cool, rasped her lips. He drew back an inch. “I need an answer, Bryn.”
Her eyes closed. She leaned forward a hair, closing the distance between them again. “Yes.”
“You’ll marry me again?”
“Yes.”
And this time when they made love it was with hunger and intensity, a consuming desire that nearly burned them both alive. Nothing mattered, she thought blindly, nothing mattered but them, and this.
She returned to her room just before dawn, senses satiated, heart still raw. She was wrong, she acknowledged, opening her door and gazing at sleeping Ben, there were things that did matter more than making love to Kahlil.
Ben, for starters.
And earning Kahlil’s love.
All the lovemaking in the world wasn’t enough to ease the loneliness inside her. Kahlil touched her, tasted her, took her with passion but the emptiness in her heart, the detachment in his expression, only grew.
If only he’d utter one affectionate word, give her a sign of deeper feelings, but he kept his emotions hidden and shared with her just…skin.
His body. Her body. He was doing his best to reduce their relationship to sex.
Bryn closed her eyes, leaned against the doorframe, drawing a slow, ragged breath. She wanted Kahlil, but she wanted it the way it had once been between them. She wanted Kahlil to love her. And he didn’t.
&n
bsp; Her fear, at first small, but now growing, was that he wouldn’t. Ever. But she clamped down on the fear, reducing it in size until she could breathe easier. She refused to panic, had no intention of subjecting herself—or Ben—to emotional chaos. Once she might have run away from her fears, but not anymore.
Bryn bathed and was dressed by the time Ben awoke. His delight in seeing her brought tears to her eyes. He hugged her and hugged her, holding so tightly she begged him to be gentle, to let her breathe.
“I love Mommy, I love you!”
“I love you. I missed you.” She kissed his mouth, his forehead, the tip of his nose. “How are you? What have you been doing?”
He told her about his activities, chattering as she dressed him and continuing through breakfast, talking a mile a minute about everything he’d discovered since arriving in Zwar. Puppies, and miniature trains, cousins, soccer and card games. Lots to eat. Movies on videotape. Even a ride on a beautiful black pony.
“You’ve done all that in only two days?” Bryn said, indulgently teasing him, enjoying every breathless announcement he made.
They lingered over their breakfast in the courtyard, Ben frequently leaving his chair to creep into her lap for a snuggle.
Now with the dishes cleared away he’d begun to explore the patio garden, first poking at a pill bug he’d discovered in one of the massive clay pots and then sniffing at gardenias planted beneath a tall palm.
Footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Bryn glanced up, hoping it was Lalia with the promised coffee. Bryn had found the adjustment to mint tea impossible, but it wasn’t Lalia with coffee.
It was a man. Broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, darkly handsome like Kahlil but not as tall. Amin stood before her in an expensive light gray suit, white shirt, pewter silk tie smiling. “Hello, gorgeous.”
Bryn’s arm went nerveless, her hand falling to her lap. She tried to stand but couldn’t. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that the welcome I get after all these years?” Amin thrust a hand into his trouser pockets, head bending, dark hair cut close, accenting his beauty. And he was beautiful, more so than Kahlil, the beauty of Hollywood film stars, fine bones, perfect symmetry in his features. But now his elegance and polish repelled Bryn. His external beauty hid the heart of a snake.
