Marriage Behind the Façade. Lynn Harris Raye
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It was Malik’s home, and she would in some ways be at his mercy. But she was determined to maintain as much control over her life as possible, which was why she’d insisted on making her own arrangements. Yes, it would have been easier to fly with Malik and let him take care of everything.
But she refused to give him that much control.
The plane touched down in Jahfar a couple of hours after dawn. The moment they taxied to the gate, Sydney realized how foolish her thoughts had been. Because nothing was under her control any longer. A flight attendant hurried to her side, hands clutched together in front of her body. The woman seemed nervous, afraid. And then she bowed deeply.
A heavy feeling settled in the pit of Sydney’s stomach.
“Princess Al Dhakir, please forgive us for not realizing you were aboard.”
“I …” Sydney blinked, her skin heating with embarrassment. “No, that’s fine,” she said, recovering herself though her heart throbbed painfully. “I didn’t wish it to be known.”
She felt so pretentious, but what else could she say? There was no explaining, no telling these people not to refer to her as a princess. They wouldn’t understand.
The woman bowed again before a man came forward and collected Sydney’s carry-on bag from the overhead compartment. Everyone else remained seated as she exited the plane first, her cheeks burning hot. She had an overwhelming urge to strangle Malik when next she saw him.
Which proved to be far sooner than she expected.
The international airport in Port Jahfar teemed with people clothed in both Jahfaran and Western dress, but they fell away like water from a ship’s bow as a man and his entourage cleaved through them. The man was tall, dressed in the flowing white dishdasha and traditional headdress of Jahfar. At his waist was a curved dagger with a jeweled hilt—surprising in an airport, and yet not so much considering where they were.
And who he was. She realized with a shock that the magnificent man in traditional clothing was actually her husband. Heat softened her bones, flooded her core. She’d never seen Malik in Jahfaran clothing. The effect was … extraordinary.
He was every inch a sheikh. Exotic, dark, handsome.
Magnificent.
Malik strode toward her with that arrogant gait of his, his dark eyes burning into her from afar so that she felt the urge to shrink inside herself and disappear. She looked like hell—felt like hell—after so many hours in the air.
And he was like something out of a fairy tale.
Oh, if only she could turn time back an hour or so and change clothes, fix her hair, her makeup.
Why, Sydney? What would be the point in that?
Malik might have made love to her again and again over the two months they were together, but he’d clearly been slumming for his own purposes. Supermodels and beauty queens were more to his taste.
Sydney thrust her chin out. She would not cower or hide. She would not be ashamed.
There was nothing to be ashamed of.
Malik came to a halt before her, his entourage carefully surrounding them both, protecting them, without coming too close.
Her throat felt as dry as sand as his gaze slid over her. “Here I am,” she said somewhat inanely. “As promised.”
Immediately, she wished she hadn’t been the first to speak. It was as if she’d given away some slice of invisible ground in their war with each other, as if she’d arrayed her forces on this particular field of battle and then failed because of something so obvious such as not arming them with weapons.
But it was because of him, because he was making her nervous as he studied her. No doubt he was regretting his impulse to inform anyone she was his wife. She was too casual in her white cotton tank, navy jacket, jeans and ballet flats. A princess should look more polished, like a movie star. She should be sporting Louboutins on her feet, carrying an Yves St. Laurent handbag and wearing the latest Milan fashions.
Well, she wasn’t truly a princess and there was little point in pretending to be one for the next month and ten days.
One dark eyebrow arched as he studied her. “Yes, here you are.”
Sydney’s heart skipped several beats at once, making her feel momentarily light-headed. She splayed her hand over her chest, breathing deeply to regulate the rhythm.
Malik looked alarmed. “What is wrong? Do you need a doctor?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Just a few skips. Happens sometimes, usually when I’m tired. It’s nothing.”
Before she had time to do more than squeak a protest, he swept her off her feet and into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he turned and barked orders to the men surrounding them.
“Malik, for God’s sake, put me down! I’m not hurt,” she cried.
He didn’t listen. She considered kicking her legs and fighting, showing him just how strong she was, but decided that bringing them both to the ground with a struggle was counterproductive.
“Please put me down,” she begged as he began to move. “This is embarrassing.”
People were staring at them, pointing, whispering. Malik seemed not to care. It was stunning to be held against him after so much time. Like plunging into a swimming pool with all your clothes on. He was hard, strong, and the heat of his body reminded her of another kind of heat they’d once shared.
He glanced down at her, his handsome features stark against the dark red background of the headdress framing his face. No one would ever mistake this man for anything other than a prince, she thought wildly. He was so sure of himself, so full of life and heat and passion.
She’d missed that.
No.
No, she was not going there. She didn’t miss Malik. She didn’t miss a single thing about him.
“We are not going far,” he said. “I will put you down as soon as we are somewhere quiet, so you may rest.”
She turned her head away as his long strides ate up the distance. The entourage hurried along with them, in front of them, their passage through the airport like the ripple of a giant wave. Soon, they were passing between sliding glass doors and into a quiet suite with plush chairs, tables and a bar at one end. Soft music played to the empty room. The lights in here were low, the air cool against her heated skin.
Malik set her down in one of the chairs. A glass of cold fizzy water appeared before she’d even blinked.
“Drink,” he ordered, settling into the chair beside her and picking up the glass.
“I’ve had plenty to drink,” she said, pushing his hand away. “Anything else, and I’ll explode.”
He looked doubtful. “Jahfar is hot, habibti. It can sneak up on you before you realize it.”
“Water is not my problem, Malik,” she insisted. “I’ve just flown all the way from L.A. I’m tired. I’m stressed. I want a bed and six hours of uninterrupted sleep.”
She’d slept a little on the plane, but not enough. She’d been too nervous.
And with good reason. The man staring back at her now, this hard, hawklike being who seemed so remote and unapproachable—so regal—could make a lion nervous. Were they really married? Had she ever shared a tender moment with this intimidating man?
“Then you shall have it,” he said. He nodded to a man who turned and disappeared through another door. A few minutes later, he took her hand—as she tried desperately to block the prickling heat of skin on skin—and led her out the same door and into an elevator. Then they were exiting the airport through a private entrance and climbing