Bride Behind The Desert Veil (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Marchetti Dynasty, Book 3)

by Abby Green

  Sharif nodded. ‘As per the prenuptial agreement—it’s all there in black and white.’

  ‘But what...?’ Liyah stopped, suddenly hesitant.’

  Sharif lifted a brow. ‘What...?’

  Liyah could feel herself getting hot again. ‘What about the fact that we...?’ She stopped again, unable to articulate the words.

  ‘Slept together?’

  She nodded.

  Sharif’s expression hardened. ‘That was a mistake. It won’t happen again. This marriage isn’t about that.’

  Liyah couldn’t look away from Sharif’s hard expression. ‘It won’t happen again.’ A word trembled on her tongue. Why? But she stopped herself from letting it slip out, cursing herself for not realising sooner.

  She’d been inexperienced. He hadn’t. Clearly what had been a transformative experience for her had not been nearly as earth-shattering for him, and she felt mortified now for assuming otherwise.

  She should be welcoming this development. The fact that he didn’t really want a wife. He’d seduced her so easily. She’d lain down and bared her entire body and soul to him. She’d behaved totally out of character. Did she really want to risk revealing herself to him again? No.

  The plane had come to a stop now, and staff were opening doors. Liyah gathered her things and avoided Sharif’s eye, terrified that he might read something she couldn’t hide.

  Disappointment.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ABOUT AN HOUR after they’d landed at the airfield Sharif watched Liyah walk around the vast space of his penthouse. A helicopter had brought them from the airfield to the building Sharif owned, where he had an apartment at the very top.

  Liyah had looked mesmerised as they’d flown over the iconic city.

  ‘Have you been to New York before?’ he’d asked her.

  She’d just shaken her head, eyes wide and glued to the canopy of tall sparkling buildings below. It had made Sharif look down too, for the first time in a long time. Normally he was in such a hurry to get to the next place, next meeting...

  Now she walked through the vast open living space, and Sharif noted it dispassionately through her eyes. Impeccably decorated, with a neutral background of varying shades of grey. The furniture was sleek and elegant—antique. Works of art, on the walls and dotted around the room on tables, provided pops of colour and texture.

  It struck him now that he’d never really felt fully connected with this space. He had no more attachment to this apartment than he did to any hotel suite.

  Massive curtains were pulled back from floor-to-ceiling windows and a huge set of French doors that led out to a terrace overlooking Central Park. Liyah stood at the window and looked out.

  Her hair was still up in a messy knot. The trousers and top she’d changed into did little to hide her body. She could be a model, with her height and proportions. But, her generous curves would put her in the plus size bracket —which was ridiculous, Sharif knew, because she was a perfectly healthy weight.

  It was an aspect of the fashion industry that was slowly changing to reflect a far more accurate depiction of women’s bodies, and not before time.

  He didn’t welcome the hum of electricity that seemed to have become a permanent fixture in his blood since she’d been revealed at the wedding. Since last night. He defended himself. She was truly stunning, even as pared back as she was right now. And he was only human. He’d always appreciated a beautiful woman.

  But something prickled over Sharif’s skin as he contemplated what a knockout she would be when she was dressed to impress. He had a feeling that she would easily transcend the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. And he inhabited a world where beauty wasn’t just a given. It was expected. Demanded.

  He resolved to speak to his team about making sure there were no skeletons in her closet that might derail his plans. But he was sure there weren’t. The Mansour royal family weren’t renowned for creating headlines—which was one of the reasons he’d decided to make the most of the diplomatic marriage.

  Liyah was still trying to get her bearings after the helicopter ride that had whisked them over to the island of Manhattan, to this tall, gleaming spire of steel where they’d landed on the roof. She looked over the expanse of Central Park nearby—less lush than usual at this time of year, in late winter, but still beautiful.

  A tiny bubble of hysteria rose inside her as she realised that it was no wonder she couldn’t get her bearings. Her feet had literally hardly touched the ground since they’d landed. And was this how her new husband lived? In the clouds? Far above the mere mortals below? He probably got whatever was the opposite of a head rush if he had to go down to ground level.

  She could feel him behind her, albeit a few feet away. Looking at her. Was he trying to figure her out? Or was she so inconsequential to him that she wasn’t even worth that?

  She turned around and felt an immediate rush of awareness when she found that he was looking at her. Hands in pockets. Supremely at home against this luxurious backdrop. She might be from a royal family but she knew that whatever riches and privileges she’d grown up with could never have prepared her for this world. They were at another level now. Literally. He could probably buy and sell her entire country a few times over and still have change.

  Liyah folded her arms, feeling self-conscious. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look as if you were doing just fine without a wife.’

  Sharif moved then, with a fluid athletic grace that made Liyah’s mouth go dry. He took off his jacket and draped it gracefully over a chair and then sat down on a couch, his large body all at once relaxed and yet alert. Primed. He had a stillness about him that was seriously unnerving, but also mesmerising. Like a predator that looked benign until it struck with deadly precision.

  He put out a hand, ‘Please, sit—make yourself at home.’

  Liyah’s mouth compressed as she took in the vast array of sumptuous couches and chairs covered in smooth soft velvet. Tactile and yet intimidating. Because they looked as if they’d never been touched. She chose an armchair at a right angle to his couch and sat gingerly.

  Sharif said, ‘I can assure you that I do indeed need a wife at this particular juncture. But tell me something...why did you offer yourself up in your sister’s place?’

  The thought that he could be here right now with Samara and not her sent a dark shard of something very disturbing deep into Liyah’s gut. Jealousy?

  Liyah felt prickly after that disturbing revelation. ‘Samara is only nineteen.’

  ‘Which, as you know, in Taraq and Al-Murja is a perfectly respectable age to get married.’

  Liyah responded stiffly. ‘I just think it’s too young to throw away your independence.’

  Sharif raised a brow. His mouth quirked. ‘I’ve married a feminist?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  Sharif laid an arm across the back of the couch and it pulled the material of his shirt and waistcoat across his broad chest. Distracting Liyah. She cursed him, because he probably knew exactly what he was doing.

  He answered, ‘Not at all. I don’t see how any woman can say she’s not a feminist.’

  Liyah’s prickliness and scattered thoughts disappeared. She looked at him.

  He said, ‘Don’t look so surprised. My mother was a strong woman, and if it hadn’t been for her I would have had to spend even more time with my father.’

  ‘How old were you when she died?’

  Sharif didn’t move a muscle, but Liyah sensed his reticence.

  ‘Nine. It was a long time ago.’

  Clearly they’d been close. Liyah felt a pang to think of how different her own life might have been if her mother hadn’t died so young.

  ‘So,’ he repeated, ‘why did you take your sister’s place?’

  Liyah hesitated at the prospect of telling Sharif the truth, but then remi
nded herself that he hadn’t even cared which sister he married. ‘Because she’s in love with someone else and wants to marry him.’

  ‘But you just said you think she’s too young to give up her independence...isn’t it a contradiction to approve of her marrying someone else?’

  Liyah’s conscience pricked. She had just contradicted herself—spectacularly. She felt like squirming. No one had ever questioned her this closely about anything. ‘I just want her to be happy... But I’m afraid she’ll be disappointed. Because love doesn’t exist—or, if it does, it’s a destructive force.’

  ‘That’s a very cynical view to have.’

  ‘Something tells me that a man who is prepared to seduce a stranger the night before his arranged marriage doesn’t exactly hold love in high esteem,’ Liyah observed drily.

  Sharif acknowledged that with a dip of his head. ‘Touché.’

  For a moment Liyah felt a heady rush of exhilaration. Here was a kindred spirit. Was that why she’d been so drawn to him on sight? Because she’d sensed an unconscious affinity? It would certainly help explain her uncharacteristic behaviour.

  And yet, even though she recognised and welcomed the sense of affinity, the exhilaration faded to leave a hollow echo inside her to know he was as cynical as her.

  ‘So, who hurt you?’

  Liyah’s breath stopped for a second at his question. She wondered if she’d heard correctly. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re not innocent, but you’re not experienced. So, whoever your lover was, he either hurt you badly enough to spark your cynicism or he merely confirmed it. And he didn’t ensure that you were satisfied.’

  Liyah wanted to slide under the chair and into the floor. Had it been so obvious? No wonder he didn’t want to repeat the experience.

  ‘You think you see a lot.’

  He practically smirked. ‘I know I do. It is a skill honed over many years.’

  The need to know how and why he’d developed such a skill hovered on Liyah’s tongue, but before she could say a word there was a sound and they both blinked, as if taken by surprise at the way their conversation had engrossed them.

  Liyah looked to the door, where a middle-aged gentleman stood. She hadn’t even known anyone else was in the place, but it was so vast she wasn’t surprised.

  Sharif stood up. ‘Liyah, I’d like you to meet Thomas Burke, the house manager here.’

  Liyah stood up and met the man halfway. Shaking his hand, she smiled, feeling suddenly shy.

  ‘Mrs Marchetti, it’s a pleasure to welcome you to New York.’

  Sharif glanced at his watch and said, ‘I have to go downtown for some meetings and to catch up on my calls. Thomas will show you around and take note of any dietary requirements. You should settle in, Liyah, I’ll be back for dinner.’

  ‘Take note of any dietary requirements.’ As if she was literally an employee.

  Which she pretty much was.

  Sharif walked out, taking his jacket with him, and Liyah breathed out fully for the first time since they’d arrived at the apartment.

  She dutifully followed Thomas around the different rooms and tried not to let her jaw drop too obviously. There were two dining rooms—informal and formal. A massive kitchen with its own elegant dining area. There was a gym, with a lap pool, and a media centre, complete with a cinema that could seat about fifty people.

  There were numerous bedrooms.

  She noticed that Thomas didn’t show her into Sharif’s, but she was given a room just across the hall and it was show-stopping. Decorated in dark blues and greys, with a shag pile carpet, it was decadent and glamorous.

  It had its own terrace and a dressing room, and en suite bathroom that was about as big as the hammam back in Taraq.

  Thomas stood in the doorway, not a hint of curiosity about the fact that the new Mrs Marchetti and her husband were obviously not traditional man and wife showing on his face.

  ‘As Mr Marchetti said, let me know if you have any specific dietary preferences and I’ll pass them on to the chef.’

  The chef!

  Liyah balked. ‘How many staff are here?’

  Thomas calculated for a second. ‘Daily, about three—the housemaid, the chef and myself. Then weekly there’s a few more—the florist...people like that.’

  Liyah had seen the gorgeous colourful blooms in the hall... Thomas was looking at her. She hadn’t answered. ‘Oh, sorry—nothing. No preferences. I eat anything.’

  Thomas looked almost comically taken aback for a moment, and then he bowed ever so slightly and smiled. ‘Very good. Dinner will be served at seven, and Mr Marchetti will be in the lounge for an aperitif at six-thirty. Just press the bell by your bed if you need anything in the meantime.’

  Thomas left and Liyah investigated her space. Her luggage had been magically unpacked and put away, and she tried not to wince at how shabby her things looked in the pristine space.

  She had sisters who wouldn’t be caught dead in anything without a designer label, but that had just been one of the many differences between them and Liyah.

  She explored the terrace, taking in the truly stupendous view. The sidewalk looked many miles below her, where people scurried like ants. The sky was bright blue and the air was sharp and cold. But there was no snow.

  Liyah had never seen snow. It hadn’t ever been that cold when she’d been in Europe.

  Despite her sleep on the plane, Liyah felt weary. It had been a tumultuous couple of days. And this was supposedly her wedding night with her new husband. Except it was morning—daytime—and they were on the other side of the world. And he obviously had no intention of sleeping with her again.

  Thoroughly discombobulated, and not wanting to dwell on the revelations of her new situation, Liyah took off her clothes and crawled into the enormous bed between sheets that felt like silk to the touch. She was asleep in seconds.

  That evening Sharif looked out over the view of a lowering grey sky. He’d never really got used to the cold winters in New York, but as this was where he’d moved the headquarters of the Marchetti Group’s operations after his father’s death he’d come to tolerate them.

  Moving here from the main hub in Rome had been his first step in breaking all ties with his father’s legacy. His first step in stamping out his father’s influence. The next steps would be the final death knells and would wipe Domenico Marchetti’s name out of existence, reducing his legacy to dust.

  But even now, as he reminded himself of all that was at stake and all that was to come, Sharif couldn’t focus. He was distracted. He’d been distracted all day. Thinking of her. His new wife. The woman who was also his mysterious temptress from the oasis—who had lured him like a siren and then kissed him like a novice.

  But now he knew better. She’d been no novice.

  She’d known exactly what she was doing at that oasis and she’d taken him for a complete fool—

  A sound from behind him brought his thoughts to a stop. He turned around slowly. His wife stood in the doorway. She looked hesitant. She was wearing a long cream traditional Taraqi tunic. V-necked, it dipped just low enough to show the top of the curve of her breasts. She also wore slim-fitting matching trousers and flat sandals. He noticed there was still henna on her feet. If this was a traditional marriage he would be taking her to his bed tonight.

  A skewer of need twisted in Sharif’s gut and he crushed it. This was not a traditional marriage and he would not be taking her to his bed. Ever again.

  Her hair was down, curling wildly around her shoulders, parted in the middle to reveal the effortless beauty of her face. Those huge almond eyes. Wide, generous mouth, lush lips. High cheekbones.

  Sharif could imagine her as a teenager, all coltish limbs and awkward grace. But now she was a grown woman, and he had seriously underestimated her.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ He for
ced civility into his voice when he felt far from civil.

  She nodded and walked in.

  Sharif couldn’t help but notice the soft sway of her breasts under the material of her tunic. Dio. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Considering what he knew now, he suspected that was on purpose. Her talk of not needing money from him had been a cute deflection from her true nature.

  ‘A soda and lime would be nice, thank you.’

  So demure. So deceptive.

  Sharif poured her drink, handed it to her, and then poured himself a Scotch.

  She hovered, as if unsure what to do or where to go.

  Her apparent reticence irritated him now. It was all an act. He cursed himself for not investigating her sooner. But he had investigated her sister, and nothing untoward had come back, so he’d just assumed she would be the same. A serious lapse in Sharif’s usual attention to detail.

  ‘Please, sit, Liyah. You don’t need permission.’

  Liyah sat on one of the couches, sending him a slightly inquisitive look, which he ignored.

  Sharif chose a chair. Instead of demanding that she explain herself straight away, he decided to play dumb. ‘Did you rest this afternoon?’

  She nodded and took a sip of her drink. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  But Sharif knew he couldn’t string this out—he was too angry. ‘You don’t have to thank me for everything. This is your home now too, and you’re free to come and go. But...’ He paused for a moment, watching her carefully. ‘I will not tolerate the kind of behaviour you have displayed on your hedonistic jaunt around Europe over the last couple of years.’

  Hedonistic jaunt.

  Liyah had just taken a sip of her drink and she nearly choked, but she managed to swallow before she did.

  She looked at her husband.

  He’d seen the papers and the paparazzi photos.

  The hurt that she’d felt the first time she’d realised she’d been so betrayed felt fresh again. The fact that she wasn’t similarly armed with information on Sharif made her feel very defenceless now. But then she told herself she was being paranoid.