A Whisper of Disgrace

by Sharon Kendrick

  ‘Maybe nothing,’ he clipped out, and now his words were coated with ice. ‘I told you those things because.’ Kulal felt a brief flicker of anger, but it was directed at himself as much as at her. What the hell had possessed him to tell her all those things? To open up his heart in a way which was unheard of? ‘Because you’d given me a brief glimpse into your own sorry family saga and I decided it was only fair to try to redress the balance. But I didn’t tell you so that you could suddenly decide to “fix me.”‘ He stared at her. ‘You have enough things to worry you, Rosa—and if you feel the need for some sort of redemptive programme in your life, then I suggest you might try working on your own stuff first.’

  His attack had come out of nowhere and it startled her. Rosa stared into his hawk-like face and thought that his expression looked cruel and almost … unrecognisable. Except that wasn’t strictly true, was it? He had looked at her that way when she’d woken up in his villa. When she’d found herself alone in his bed and discovered him staring at her as if he didn’t like her very much… .

  She fished around for something to say. Something which wouldn’t involve bursting into tears and demanding to know why he’d felt the need to spoil everything with his cruel words. But instead, she fixed him with a questioning look which was very polite and utterly shallow. ‘What kind of documentary?’

  He nodded, as if approving her sudden change of subject. ‘A groundbreaking one, with not a camel in sight.’

  She gave the smile she knew was expected of her before walking into her dressing room to choose something to wear. Her hands were shaking as she pulled open the closet door, but she tried to tell herself that she couldn’t heap all the blame on Kulal.

  Because in a way he was right, wasn’t he? She hadn’t worked out any of her own stuff. She still felt bitter and hurt by what she had learnt about her parentage. She had run away from her family, but it seemed that her family had been happy to let her go—and she was surprised by the sharp pain she felt as a result. Had she thought she was still their precious Rosa who could do no wrong? That they’d come seeking some kind of reconciliation or to comfort her, when the reality was that they would have been furious and humiliated by her desertion?

  She began to riffle her way through her clothes, picking out an ankle-length dress, which Kulal had chosen for her himself. It was a simple red dress, but the beauty was in the fabric which clung like molten syrup to her curves. Skyscraper heels in ebony leather and loose hair completed the look, though impulsively she clipped a scarlet silk flower behind her ear at the last minute.

  Kulal’s reaction to her appearance was gratifying, although she had to reapply her lipstick after he’d kissed it all away, and still glowing from the sweetness of that kiss, she decided that she was going to forget the bitter words he’d spoken. What was the point of ruining the evening ahead, especially when he looked so … gorgeous. His dark, sculpted features were highlighted by the fact that he was newly shaved and his ebony hair gleamed in the early-evening sunshine as they stepped into the official car.

  Was it normal to feel this way? she wondered. To want to touch him at every given moment and run her fingers over each inch of his body? But she didn’t give in to her desire—just sat serenely beside him on the back seat of the large car, asking him intelligent questions about the proposed documentary, so that by the time they arrived in the trendy Marais area of the city she felt composed. As if she had been born to walk into swish restaurants by the side of a man who had caught the attention of every person in the room.

  The TV executive was called Arnaud Bertrand, and if she’d been with anyone other than Kulal, Rosa might have found him attractive. His chiselled jaw and sensual mouth hinted at his earlier career as an underwear model, before he’d realised that it was far better to rely on his brains, rather than his beauty. Or so he told Rosa, during a lull in the conversation, when Kulal was busy talking to the location manager about the practicalities of taking a film crew to Zahrastan.

  ‘Whilst you,’ he mused, his eyes moving to the bright flower she wore in her hair, ‘could rely on both, I think. Brains and beauty.’

  ‘I’m not beautiful,’ she said quickly.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ Arnaud narrowed his eyes. ‘With that lustrous hair and perfect skin, you remind me of Monica Bellucci. And you are the wife of one of the world’s most powerful men, a man who could have any woman he chooses. That in itself speaks volumes about you.’

  Rosa bit back a wry smile. If only he knew why Kulal had ended up with this too-curvy Sicilian with a complicated past! ‘And I’m certainly no academic,’ she said, swiftly changing the subject and wondering if he paid such lavish compliments to every woman who entered his radar.

  ‘But you’re a linguist, right? You speak French and English—and Italian, of course.’

  Rosa shrugged. ‘Plenty of people do.’

  ‘But plenty of people do not look like you, Rosa. You have a freshness about you—and a vibrancy too.’ Arnaud lifted his wine glass to his lips, and over his shoulder Rosa thought she could see a faint frown appearing on Kulal’s brow. ‘Tell me, would you be interested in taking a screen test?’

  Rosa blinked. ‘You mean for television?’

  ‘Of course for television—that’s my medium.’

  ‘I don’t act,’ said Rosa bluntly. ‘And don’t they say that the camera adds ten pounds? I’m completely the wrong shape for the small screen—I’d fill it!’

  ‘Ah, but I believe in smashing stereotypes,’ said Arnaud softly. ‘I’m trained to recognise that certain je ne sais quoi which the camera loves and I think you have it. I’m not expecting you to act, just do a brief test. Would you be interested?’

  Telling herself that it would be rude to refuse his offer—or maybe that it would simply be easier to go along with it—Rosa took his card and slipped it into her handbag.

  ‘Ring me,’ he said, and then turned back to talk to Kulal.

  The dinner was delicious and the wines kept on coming and Rosa felt wonderfully replete as their car arrived to take them home. But even though she made a few predictable comments about how well the evening had gone, Kulal merely answered her in clipped monosyllables. His powerful body seemed tense and forbidding, but she was feeling expansive—and more than a little bit randy—so she trickled her fingertips over his forearm. But he didn’t react and, feeling foolish, she quickly removed her hand as if it had been contaminated. He didn’t say another word until they were back at the apartment and the lights which bounced nightly off the Eiffel Tower were flickering over the huge sitting room, making it seem as if they were standing in the centre of a silent fireworks display.

  ‘You seemed to hit it off very well with Arnaud,’ he said slowly.

  ‘That was the whole point, surely?’ She clicked on one of the lamps, telling herself she was imagining the scowl of accusation on his face. ‘I was there as your wife, to support you—and the best way I could do that was to be friendly.’

  His black eyes bored into her. ‘Did being friendly involve thrusting your breasts in the face of the executive producer?’

  Rosa tensed as she heard an ugly and unmistakable note in his voice. It was a note she knew too well from having grown up in a family of powerful men. Men who had an overabundance of male testosterone and an overinflated sense of their own importance. It was possession—pure and simple—and it made her skin turn to ice.

  She tried to keep the tremble of outrage from her voice. ‘That’s a completely unreasonable thing to say.’

  ‘You think so? Then why did he give you his card? You think I didn’t notice that?’

  The card was buried at the bottom of her handbag and Rosa honestly didn’t think she would have given it another thought if Kulal hadn’t challenged her, but his attitude was riling her. More than riling her—it was making rebellion stir up inside her. Because hadn’t she fled Sicily precisely to avoid this kind of domineering attitude? To stop people treating her as if she was some puppet whose
strings they could pull at will.

  ‘He asked me if I was interested in taking a screen test.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, me, Kulal—is that such a bizarre thing for him to have said?’ she demanded, pushing aside the nagging voice which reminded her that he was only echoing her own initial reaction.

  ‘And you told him no?’

  She heard the certainty in his voice and drew in a breath as her emotions began to wage a sudden and dramatic war. She knew what he wanted and she knew she could please him by telling him exactly what he wanted to hear—but then what? You caved into a bully once and that was giving him carte blanche to bully you all over again. She had planned to do nothing about Arnaud’s offer of a screen test, but now she was beginning to have second thoughts. She stared at her husband, not liking the Kulal she was seeing tonight, knowing that he had no right to dictate what she should or shouldn’t do. Because surely he hadn’t forgotten that this marriage wasn’t real?

  ‘I haven’t told him anything,’ she said. ‘At least, not yet.’

  There was a pause as Kulal stared at her. ‘But you’re going to tell him that you’re not interested,’ he said.

  Rosa’s mouth dried as she felt the sudden tension in the room. Because that had been a statement, not a question. Or rather, it had bordered on being an order.

  Rebellion flared up inside her once more. ‘I’m going to hear what he has to say,’ she answered stubbornly.

  Kulal could feel a tight knot of anger but he could feel something else too. A flicker of something which burned beneath the anger and which was growing like a weed inside him. Something painful and intolerable. Something unfamiliar and yet horribly recognisable. He rammed his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers—something he couldn’t remember doing since he’d been a schoolboy and had been sent to that terrible prep school in England. But he didn’t want her to see the bunched tension of his knotted fists. Because wouldn’t that reveal the fact that he was in pain—and he didn’t want to be in pain!

  He gave a tight shrug of his shoulders. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  Rosa watched him go. He’d sounded so dismissive, as if he didn’t want her to share his bed that night. She licked her lips. So was she going to let herself be intimidated? Crawl off to sleep in one of the empty bedrooms as if she’d done something wrong, when all she’d done was to consider a perfectly reasonable offer which had been made to her.

  Like hell she was!

  She went to the bathroom and stripped off her dress, then brushed her hair and washed her face—and when she had removed every trace of the evening, she heard something behind her and glanced into the mirror.

  Not something.

  Someone.

  Kulal stood behind her—completely naked and completely aroused by the look of him. On his face burned an expression she’d never seen there before. Was it anger or desire, she wondered, or a potent mixture of both? She saw the heat in his black eyes and instinct was telling her that maybe sleeping in one of the spare rooms was a better idea than slipping into the marital bed when he was in this kind of mood. Anything would be better than having to face that undiluted rage on Kulal’s face.

  But that was before he put his arms around her. Before he dropped his lips to her shoulder and traced a line there—the words he uttered made indistinct by his kiss. But they were not tender words. They were words of want, not words of need. They were graphic words about what he wanted to do to her, and although the baldness of his erotic wish list made her feel that she should beg for sleep and ask him to wait until morning, Rosa did no such thing.

  His hands were far too clever to let her escape. His fingers made her weak with longing and so did his lips, so that by the time he entered her from behind, she was as turned on as he was. Turned on enough to watch their dual reflections in the mirror when he urged her to do so. Turned on by the sight of her own orgasm—and just as turned on by the sight of his.

  But even though the kiss he gave her afterwards was lazy and sticky, he disentangled himself sooner than she wanted him to. She wanted him to stroke her and comfort her; to tell her to forget about the hurtful things he’d said. But he didn’t. The only thing he told her was that he needed to do some work before he slept.

  And he didn’t follow her to bed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ROSA AWOKE TO an empty space beside her and when she blinked open her heavy eyelids it was to see Kulal pulling on a jacket. He was dressed for the office in dark trousers and a pristine white shirt and she shifted a little to get a better look at him, but she noticed that he made no acknowledgement as she stirred.

  She sat up in bed, a chill creeping over her skin as she remembered the angry words of the previous evening which had culminated in that cold, almost anatomical sex in the bathroom. She shivered. At the time it had turned her on like mad to see the wild passion flaring in their eyes, as they’d watched their reflected images bucking their way to fulfilment with all the guilty pleasure of voyeurs. But now it all seemed curiously empty. Vividly, she recalled those big, dark hands cupping her breasts and the look of fierce intensity which had shadowed his face as he’d thrust into her. It was like watching a rerun of a porn show and felt like the emotional equivalent of a hangover and her cheeks began to burn with shame. How could she have let herself do that, when in the previous few moments he had been damning her with his snide accusations about flaunting her body? Accusations which hadn’t even been true.

  Which left the question of how she was going to handle the situation this morning. Did she bring up the whole painful subject and risk one of those dreadful circular arguments which went nowhere? Or should she just be grown up about what had happened? Forget what had been said the night before and start the new day on a new and positive note.

  She sat up in bed. ‘Morning!’ she said cheerfully.

  He turned round then and Rosa could see the shuttering of his dark eyes.

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ he said.

  Suddenly, she felt self-conscious. He was dressed in that immaculate suit, while beneath the sheet she felt naked and vulnerable. She wondered if he, too, was remembering last night’s erotic scene in the bathroom, and some unknown instinct made her pull the sheet a little higher. ‘I didn’t realise you were going to work so early.’

  He shrugged. ‘There are things I need to do.’

  The smile she attempted was more difficult than she’d thought—especially when he was talking to her in that polite, cool tone, as if she was someone he’d just met at a party. No, maybe not at a party—because then he would be smiling back at her. He wouldn’t be looking at her with that flat expression in his eyes. ‘Surely as the boss, you can be excluded a crack-of-dawn start!’ she said, her voice just a little too bright.

  ‘It’s not a question of being excused, Rosa—more that I have plenty of ongoing projects which need my attention.’ Kulal buttoned his jacket, acknowledging how false her words sounded. And suddenly he realised that the honeymoon was over; it had ended last night when those dark feelings had taken him to a place he hadn’t wanted to go. When he’d looked at her and experienced a blinding jealousy at the way she’d flirted with the Frenchman throughout dinner. He remembered the painful pounding of his heart as he’d stared into an abyss which had seemed uncomfortably familiar—and it had taken all his energy to regain his usual clarity of mind.

  He wondered if she was feeling more reasonable today. If she’d woken up and realised that Arnaud Bertrand had simply been using her as a means to try to get closer to him. He surveyed her curvaceous body which was outlined by the white sheet. ‘So what are you planning to do today?’

  For a moment she hesitated, because she knew the most acceptable way to answer his question. She could fake a light excitement about visiting some art gallery or exhibition, or recount the synopsis of a film she was intending to see.

  But Kulal’s behaviour last night had scared her. It had shown her the
ruthlessness he was capable of. It had painted a dark picture of what he could be like if things didn’t go his way, and it had served as a timely warning that she needed to protect herself. She needed to guard against her own stupid emotions—the ones which had started tricking her into thinking that Kulal had started to care for her. Because he hadn’t. She didn’t have a special place in his heart just because the sexual chemistry between them was so hot.

  It was important to remember something else too—something she hadn’t dared admit until now. That if she let herself start to care for him, then she would get hurt. Badly hurt. She’d go back to being a victim—the kind of woman who things happened to, instead of making them happen for herself. And he wasn’t exactly falling over himself this morning to tell her that he had spoken impulsively and out of turn, was he? He wasn’t apologising for all those insults he’d thrown at her last night.

  She remembered the way she’d capitulated to her controlling family for all those years and she twisted a strand of hair around her finger. ‘I thought I’d give Arnaud a ring.’

  ‘Arnaud Bertrand?’

  ‘He’s the only Arnaud I know.’

  He could feel the rapid flare of rage, but somehow he kept his expression neutral. ‘I thought you’d decided that wasn’t a good idea?’

  ‘I don’t remember saying that.’

  ‘Maybe not in so many words.’ His eyes narrowed as he tried not to dwell on the area of her breasts which was not concealed by the sheet. ‘But in the cold light of morning, perhaps you’ve considered the general unsuitability of a sheikh’s wife flaunting herself on television.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning to do anything to bring your name into disrepute, Kulal.’

  ‘No pole dancing, then?’