Strangers in the Desert. Lynn Raye Harris
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seat back and dug her fingernails into her palms. She would not cry. She could not cry in front of him. She couldn’t be weak.
“Do you still wish to deny the truth?” Adan asked.
She shook her head, unable to speak for fear she would lose control.
“Why did you do it, Isabella? Why did you leave your baby son? Did you not think of him even once?”
It took her several moments to answer.
“I don’t remember doing it,” she forced out, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t remember anything about that … that night. In the newspaper.”
She thought he wouldn’t believe her, that he would demand to know the truth, demand she stop lying. But he blew out a breath and looked away before turning to pierce her with his dark stare again. “Tell me what you do know, then. Tell me how you got to Hawaii.”
She wanted to be defiant, but she was too mentally drained to conjure up even a hint of strength. “I was in Jahfar, and then I was at my mother’s house in South Carolina,” she said, hugging the blanket tighter. “I don’t remember when I left, or how I got there. My father says it’s because of the accident. Because I hit my head in the crash and was in a coma for five weeks. I don’t remember the accident, but the doctor said that was normal.
“After, I spent time recuperating at my mother’s before I moved out on my own.”
“You didn’t want to return to Jahfar?”
“No, not really. I thought of it from time to time, but my father told me to stay in the States. He said he traveled a lot now, and there was no reason for me to return yet.”
“Hawaii is rather far from South Carolina,” he mused.
It was, and yet she’d been pulled there by homesickness. “I missed the sea, and the palms. I went there for a short vacation but ended up staying.”
“Why did you change your name?”
“I didn’t change it. Bella Tyler is a stage name,” she said, not wanting to admit that she’d wanted to be someone else, that calling herself by another name had been an effort to make her feel different. More confident. Less alone.
“And why were you singing in a club, Isabella? Did you need money?”
He no doubt thought so based on the size of her condo, but it was perfectly adequate for Maui. And more expensive than he might imagine.
“No. My father sent me plenty. But I sang karaoke one day, for fun. The next I knew, I was performing.”
A disapproving frown made his sensual mouth seem hard. “A lounge singer.”
Isabella felt heat prickle over her skin. “I like to sing.
I’ve always liked to sing. And I’m good at it,” she said proudly.
“I never heard you sing before tonight.”
“I sang plenty growing up, but it was for myself. If I never sang for you, then I suppose I was afraid to. Afraid you would disapprove.”
“I might not have,” he said softly.
“I must have thought so.”
“Perhaps you did.” He was unapologetic.
Isabella clutched the blanket in a fist. This was such an odd conversation. She was married to this man, and yet he was a stranger to her. They were strangers to each other, if this conversation was anything to go by.
“We must not have spent a lot of time together,” she ventured.
“Enough,” he said, his eyes suddenly hot, intense.
Isabella dipped her head, hoping she wasn’t blushing. Clearly she wasn’t a virgin, and yet she couldn’t remember anything about her first sexual experience with him. About any sexual experience with him.
“How long were we married before … the baby?”
“You were pregnant the first month. And you disappeared only a month after Rafiq was born.”
She pressed a hand to her stomach beneath the blanket. It was so hard to imagine she’d ever been pregnant. “So we weren’t together a year.”
He gave his head a shake. “Not quite, no.”
She was trying so hard to process it. Because they were married. He hadn’t faked a bunch of documents to prove it to her. These were printed copies of actual newspaper articles.
Far more likely—and harder to understand, quite honestly—was the fact her parents had lied. Oh, she didn’t really expect that her mother had orchestrated this fiction Isabella had been living with—or that she’d had a problem going along with it. No, it was her father who’d done so.
And Isabella couldn’t figure out why.
Was Adan abusive? Had her hurt her? Was her father simply being protective?
She considered it, but she didn’t believe that was the case. Because Adan had been very angry with her, yes, and he’d been arrogant and presumptuous. But he hadn’t for one moment made her feel physically threatened. If he had, she wouldn’t be here.
Or at least not willingly.
She was uncomfortable with him—but not because she feared him.
Isabella pressed two fingers to her temple. It was so much to process.
“Does your head hurt?” Adan asked suddenly.
She was surprised at the answer. “Yes.” She’d been so focused that she hadn’t realized her temple was beginning to throb. Soon, the headache would spread to the other side. And she’d left her migraine medicine on the kitchen counter. She didn’t get them often, but when she did, they weren’t in the least bit pleasant.
Adan pressed a button on his seat and a flight attendant appeared. He ordered a glass of water and some ibuprofen. When it arrived, she gulped down the tablets, though she didn’t expect they would do any good.
“Perhaps you should sleep,” he said. “There’s a bedroom at the back, and a bathroom where you can wash your face.”
She should sleep, and yet she couldn’t quite yet. “Do you have a picture of him?” she asked quietly.
The corners of his mouth grew tight. Then he pulled out his cell phone and pressed a few buttons. When he held it out to her, the breath caught in her throat.
The little boy staring at the camera was adorable, of course. But it was more than that. She gazed at his face in wonder, searching for signs of her own features. She saw Adan easily in the dark hair and dark eyes. But the chin, that was hers. And the shape of the nose.
A tear slipped free and slid down her cheek. “He’s two now?”
Adan nodded as he took the phone back. She wasn’t ready to stop looking at the photo, and yet she couldn’t ask him to let her see it again.
She’d missed so much. So damn much. His first word. His first step. She scrubbed a hand across her face. Her head throbbed. Her stomach churned. She wasn’t sure if it was the headache or the heartache causing it, but she felt physically ill.
Isabella shot to her feet. Adan rose with the grace of a hunting panther, his brows drawn together. “What is wrong?”
“I have to—the bathroom.”
Adan pointed and Isabella bolted for the door. She made it just in time, heaving the contents of her stomach into the toilet. When she finally straightened, she caught sight of her face in the mirror. She looked like hell. Like a girl who’d got into her mother’s makeup and put way too much on in an effort to look more grown-up.
Isabella turned on the taps—bronze taps on an airplane, so much fancier than the usual airline bathroom—and began to