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

by Abby Green

  ‘You are...perfect, Liyah.’

  She looked away. He saw that the hands on her bag weren’t quite steady.

  A spike of concern made him say, ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  She moved one slim shoulder up and down. ‘I guess I’m not really used to this level of attention.’

  Sharif thought of those photos of her cavorting on yachts and falling out of clubs in slinky short numbers that were most definitely not haute couture. The spike of concern faded. Yes, she came from a royal family, but he appreciated that his world was a step up in levels of sophistication. Still, he had no doubt that she’d become accustomed to his world very soon.

  Sharif put down his glass. ‘We should go. My driver is waiting.’

  He crossed the space between them and was about to take Liyah’s elbow to guide her out when he stopped. Her scent filled Sharif’s nostrils. A new scent. Tones of heady musky flowers conjuring up images of the hot dry desert, where exotic flowers bloomed in the most unlikely places. Like deserted oases.

  ‘My ring. My wedding ring. I forgot to put it on.’

  Liyah was looking up at him and Sharif realised she must be wearing heels, because her plump, lush mouth was close enough for him to see that it was slicked only with a nude sheen. Nothing as garish as red or pink lipstick.

  Close up, he could see that the green of the dress made her eyes pop, and that kohl and dark shadow had turned them a light smoky green. All in all, her make-up was subtle, merely enhancing her natural beauty.

  He blinked. The ring. ‘You don’t like wearing it?’

  She made a face as she pulled away. ‘Sorry, it’s lovely—I’m just afraid I’ll lose it or something.’

  She turned to go back to her room—presumably to get it—and presented Sharif with a view of her smooth back. He swallowed a sound of frustration that she was getting to him like this, and forced out, ‘Wait. I have something here.’

  She’d distracted him enough that he’d forgotten. He’d ordered a replacement ring, because he’d seen that the other one didn’t seem to fit.

  She turned around and came back.

  Sharif took a small box out of his inside pocket. He opened it and she looked down. He saw her inhale. It made her breasts swell against the dress. Blood surged to his groin and he clenched his jaw.

  ‘Try it on.’

  He took it out of the box and held out his hand, not even sure why he was insisting on doing it himself. Her hand was cool in his. Small. He slid the ring onto her finger. She drew her hand back and the ring sparkled, making him feel like a fraud. He cursed himself. Since when had he grown a conscience?

  She looked at the ring. ‘You didn’t have to change it.’

  Sharif put the empty box down on a nearby table. ‘It’s fine, I should have consulted with you in the first instance. Let’s go.’

  Liyah sat in the warm cocoon of the sleek car, with a couple of feet between her and Sharif. A couple of feet that she was grateful for, because she still hadn’t quite recovered from seeing him waiting for her dressed in a classic black tuxedo.

  The suit was clearly bespoke, showcasing the powerful lines of his body. It made him look even taller and broader than he usually did. But, while he wore the suit with the utmost elegance and propriety, Liyah wasn’t fooled by the sophisticated veneer for a second.

  He’d placed a voluminous fur coat over her shoulders before they’d left the apartment. She’d looked at it suspiciously, and he’d said drily, ‘Don’t worry—it’s fake. We only work with designers who reject the harming of animals for their designs.’

  She’d been grateful for the luxurious warmth when the cold Mahattan air had hit her like a slap in the face upon emerging onto the street. But after the initial shock, she’d breathed in the sharp air gratefully. It was her first time out of the apartment since she’d arrived. Till now, her only encounter with the outside world had been from her terrace, many floors above the streets, heightening the sense of unreality, which had only been compounded by the activities of the last two days.

  She glanced at the new ring on her finger again. He’d surprised her, noticing that she hadn’t felt comfortable with the other one. Except this one made her uncomfortable too—but for very different reasons.

  It was...beautiful. And relatively discreet.

  It was a diamond in a circular setting, surrounded by small baguette emeralds that extended outwards on either side. It was unusual, and something she might have actually picked for herself. But she chastised herself for thinking even for a second that he’d put any thought into it. Not when a veritable army of people had attended to every aspect of her ‘look’ for the last forty-eight hours.

  She’d been pulled, squeezed, trimmed, measured, massaged and used as a mannequin upon which hundreds of different dresses, trouser suits, jumpsuits, casual clothes, swimwear, coats and shoes had been tried.

  She’d even been consulted on what scents she preferred by a perfumier, and a signature scent had been mixed and sent to her within twenty-four hours in a beautiful crystal bottle with her name on it, embossed with gold leaf.

  And underwear... Underwear so delicate and fine that it made her blush just to look at it.

  The previous night Liyah had dreamt of Sharif’s big hands, flicking aside wispy bits of lace from her body so he could get to her skin. She’d woken trembling and hot. Aching inside.

  Liyah slid Sharif a quick furtive look. He was looking out of his window, his jaw hard. Remote. His thick hair was brushed back, curling on the collar of his coat slightly. He looked like a remote stranger. She could scarcely believe he was the same man who had led her into that tent at the oasis and fed her, before laying her down and showing her that she wasn’t a freak. That she had capacity to feel such pleasure that—

  ‘The press release has generated some interest. You should expect intense attention from the press when we arrive. Just stick close to me.’

  Liyah’s thoughts scattered. Sharif was looking at her and his face was cast in shadow, making the lines leaner and harsher. His eyes glittered. She gulped. No doubt he thought she was used to the paparazzi, because he believed she’d been courting their attention over the last two summers in Europe.

  ‘Okay.’

  Flashing lights in her peripheral vision made Liyah turn her head. She could see they were approaching an impressive building, with red-carpeted steps leading up to an ornate entrance. Men in tuxedoes and women in shimmering gowns were making their way into the building.

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘It’s the Metropolitan Museum.’

  Liyah sucked in a breath. She’d heard of the famous building. Suddenly she felt very unprepared. ‘What exactly is this event?’

  ‘It’s an annual gala to raise funds for a range of charities.’

  The car was pulling to a stop at the bottom of the steps now. Liyah wanted to slide down to the floor of the car and avoid the masses of paparazzi lined up along each side, and the glamorous crowd. This was far removed from anything she’d ever experienced before. In terms of royalty, the Mansours were definitely country bumpkins.

  But Sharif was already out of the car, leaving a blast of icy air in his wake. And then her door was opening and he was holding out a hand.

  Liyah had a flashback to when he’d held his hand out to her at the oasis. This couldn’t be more different...

  She forced it out of her mind, took a deep breath, and let him help her from the car to join him at the bottom of the steps.

  Immediately it seemed as if everyone—the guests arriving and walking up the steps, the paparazzi, the myriad men and women in black suits with headsets, ushering the guests towards the entrance—turned as one to look at Sharif and Liyah.

  Liyah was barely aware of Sharif’s hand wrapping tightly around hers. Or his frowning look as he took in her face. Or his words. ‘Just
stay by my side.’

  They started to move forward, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea to let them pass. There was a strange hush, and then all hell seemed to break loose.

  ‘Sharif! Sharif! Let us meet your new wife!’

  ‘Princess Aaliyah—over here!’

  ‘Please, Princess, look over here. Who are you wearing?’

  ‘Marchetti! Now that all of you are settling down, does this mean you’re taking your eye off the ball? Losing your edge?’

  Sharif stopped so abruptly that Liyah stumbled at his side. He turned to the bank of photographers to see where that last question had come from. She could feel the tension in his form.

  He addressed the faceless people behind the flashing lights. ‘The Marchetti Group is only getting stronger. I can assure you of that.’

  And then he was tugging Liyah to his side and all but carrying her as they made their way up the rest of the steps.

  As they reached the main doors, a golden glow emanated from inside a large marble foyer. More stairs led up to another level. Flaming lanterns lit their way and exotic fresh flowers scented the air. Uniformed staff expertly divested Liyah of her overcoat, so that by the time they reached the top she looked like every other woman in her glittering gown and jewels. It was opulent, and decadent, and so glamorous that she was afraid to breathe in case she made it disappear, or ruined it in some way.

  Sharif held out his arm. She looked at it stupidly for a moment, before realising he wasn’t holding her hand any more. She stepped forward and put her arm through his. She could feel the steely strength of his muscles against her, under his clothes. His heat. She tried to numb herself against the effect, but it was hard not to give in to the urge to cleave to his side.

  And even more so when they walked into a room that was bathed in the golden light of hundreds of chandeliers. Ornate flower arrangements made up the centrepieces of round tables. People milled about chatting, networking. Soft, easy jazz came from a band near the top of the room.

  They hadn’t moved but a few feet forward before Sharif was stopped by someone. He introduced her to every person who approached them, and Liyah’s face started to ache from forcing a smile. She gave up trying to remember names. They weren’t really interested in her though—they only wanted Sharif.

  He despatched all the sycophants with ruthless efficiency, indulging in no kind of small talk. Charming he was not...and yet that didn’t stop people flocking to him. No, what he was, was something far more compelling...

  It was somewhat comforting for Liyah to realise that she didn’t feel as out of place or conspicuous as she usually did. Not with Sharif by her side. He eclipsed everything around him. Nevertheless, she wasn’t unaware of the sly looks she received—mainly from other women—and the whispers as they passed by. But she held her head up and pretended not to notice.

  Eventually they reached their table, which was at the top of the room, and Liyah sat down gratefully.

  ‘Okay?’

  She looked at Sharif as he spoke, taking his seat beside her. She realised she must have made a face. ‘High heels aren’t really my thing.’

  He frowned at her, and she immediately realised that what she’d said would be at odds with the woman he thought she was. But before she could say anything else the music came to a stop and the people hushed.

  Speeches were made as they were served plates of food that looked more like art installations. Liyah sipped at sparkling wine and it only added to the general feeling of unreality.

  And then Sharif’s name was mentioned by the MC.

  Liyah’s ears pricked up.

  ‘Year on year, the biggest philanthropic contribution comes from the Marchetti Group...please welcome Sharif Marchetti.’

  Thunderous applause rang in Liyah’s ears as she watched him get up, adjust his jacket and climb the steps to the stage. He moved with such fluid animal grace that she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  Sharif’s speech was brief, succinct, and surprisingly passionate. Liyah might have expected to hear cynicism in his voice, but she could tell that he actually cared about what he was saying.

  After another round of rapturous applause, Sharif returned to the table. The MC wrapped up the speeches and people started to stand up and move around.

  Sharif looked at Liyah, ‘Ready?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To go.’

  Liyah had been prepared to settle in for a long evening of boredom as Sharif batted away more sycophants, but apparently that wasn’t how he rolled.

  She stood up. ‘Sure.’ What else was she going to say?

  Sharif took her hand and started to lead her through the crowd. Liyah faltered when she saw an anteroom where people were starting to dance to a popular tune. She loved dancing. She’d developed a surprising interest in, and love for clubbing when she’d been in Europe. Liking the sense of being anonymous in a crowd. Liking the music.

  Sharif stopped and looked from her to the room. ‘I don’t dance, Liyah.’

  She opened her mouth to say something—she wasn’t sure what—but Sharif had already turned and begun leading her away.

  They were stopped just as they reached the main door by a smirking older gentleman.

  He said, ‘Callaghan.’

  The man inclined his head. ‘Marchetti. I’d offer you congratulations, but I have to admit that the cynic in me thinks that it’s a very opportune moment for you to appear with a convenient wife in tow. Your brothers and now you...allaying the jitters of the board so you’re in peak position to launch—what, exactly? I haven’t found out what you’re up to yet, Marchetti, but I will...don’t worry.’

  Sharif said, ‘With an imagination like that, Callaghan, you’re clearly a frustrated novelist. And have you met my wife, whom you accuse of being a pawn?’

  His easy, drawling tone belied the tension Liyah felt in the hand that was wrapped around hers.

  The man had the grace to look sheepish as he acknowledged Liyah.

  She held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Liyah.’

  The man shook her hand perfunctorily, muttering something unintelligible, and walked off.

  Sharif said something unsavoury under his breath and they walked out of the room.

  ‘Who was that?’ Liyah asked, when it became obvious that Sharif wasn’t about to elaborate on the exchange.

  ‘Him? Oh, just a freelance business reporter.’

  ‘What did he mean about an “opportune moment”?’

  ‘He’s just looking for a story.’

  Liyah wasn’t convinced, but they were at the main doors leading outside now, and an attendant appeared with Liyah’s coat. Sharif took it and helped her into it. Liyah couldn’t help shivering when Sharif’s fingers brushed the back of her bare neck when she lifted her hair out of the way.

  He stilled for a moment, and then said, ‘We’ll be back at the apartment soon.’

  He’d obviously mistaken her shiver as an indication of feeling cold. Not awareness. Thankfully. She shivered all over again under the coat at the thought of him realising just how much he affected her.

  In the back of the car, Sharif heard Liyah ask, ‘Do you always leave these events early? Or was it just tonight?’

  He forced his jaw to unlock. It had gritted tight on the sight of that reporter. Actually, it had been gritted all evening, as he’d tried to remain unaware of Liyah beside him, sinuous and sultry in that dress—which was now, thankfully, covered up.

  This was unprecedented territory for Sharif. He wasn’t used to women having such a visceral pull on him. He was used to desiring women, of course, but also to relegating it very much to a place he had total control over.

  He’d almost fumbled his speech because he’d been so aware of Liyah, sitting just feet away, her skin gleaming against the green of the dress. And, even more d
istractingly, he’d been acutely aware of the attention she’d drawn from other men. Which usually didn’t bother him in the slightest, because the women he dated impacted on him only in a very peripheral way.

  But Liyah is your wife, so it’s natural that her effect is different.

  Sharif relaxed his jaw some more. That was it.

  He reached for his bow tie, loosening it. He looked at her and almost forgot what she’d asked. The soft lights in the back of the car made her seem unreadable, infinitely mysterious. All he wanted to do was clamp his hands in her hair and tug her towards him, so that he could crush that provocative mouth under his and punish her for proving to be such a distraction.

  He forced his blood to cool. ‘Did you want to stay and dance? Pretend you were back in the clubs of Europe?’

  ‘I do like dancing, actually. That’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘Only if you end up being carried out by the bouncers.’

  He watched that full mouth compress and felt his body jerk in response. He shifted in his seat.

  She said, ‘You didn’t answer my question. Do you normally leave events early?’

  Sharif instinctively chafed at the question. He didn’t indulge women who wanted to know more about him. He hadn’t shared his inner thoughts and motivations with anyone since his mother had died and the one person he’d trusted had gone. He kept things strictly superficial. Sexual. And then it was over. Which women did not appreciate... Hence the recent media attention, after his last lover had decided to lash out in the papers, branding him a heartless monster.

  But Liyah was different. They were married. And for some reason he had a compulsion to tell her. ‘I don’t particularly enjoy them. And I don’t see the point in hanging around when what I’ve needed to do is done.’

  Liyah moved back into her corner of the car, as if she wanted to get a better look at him. It made Sharif’s skin prickle with awareness and something else. Exposure.