Marriage Behind the Fa?ade (6 page)

Just like him.

“Then I’m not sure what we have left to talk about. You said you’d made a mistake. And now we’re divorcing. Everything has worked out perfectly for you.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Perhaps it has.”

He glanced at his watch. He looked so cool, so controlled, while she felt like a mess inside. Her stomach fluttered, her chest ached and she was no longer hungry.

“The clothing will be here in an hour. Choose what you like. Pay me if you wish. I care not.” He inclined his head. “Until tonight.”

Sydney had an overwhelming urge to throw something at his retreating back. Instead, she punched one of the pillows lining the seating area. It didn’t help.

Malik felt nothing. She felt everything. And this was only day two.

CHAPTER SIX

SYDNEY dressed with care in the turquoise silk
abaya
she’d chosen from the selection the seamstress brought. She did not wear a headscarf, but she did twist her hair into a loose knot and secured it with a couple of rhinestone pins. She wore her own shoes with the outfit, a pair of kitten-heeled strappy sandals that didn’t give her the height she would have liked but were very comfortable and modest.

She kept her makeup subtle, concentrating on her eyes and adding a touch of pink gloss to her lips. When she was satisfied she looked presentable, she grabbed her small clutch and went to meet Malik.

He was standing in the entryway, waiting. She hesitated when she caught sight of him, but he looked up just then and she could do nothing except stride boldly forward. He’d always been gorgeous in a tuxedo, but tonight he made her heart ache with longing. He wore a black
dishdasha,
embroidered at the sleeves and hem in gold thread. His
keffiyeh
was the traditional dark red. Somehow the framing around his face succeeded in drawing her attention to his mouth.

That bold, sensual mouth that had taken her to heaven and back.

She looked away, determined not to think about it. And yet she could feel the heat rising, flaring beneath her skin. Between her thighs. A tingle of sensation began deep inside, whether she wanted it to or not.

How could she still be attracted to him when he’d hurt her so badly? He didn’t want her, not really. He’d thought she was a mistake. It was too much like growing up in the perfect Reed family, where she was the imperfect one. The mistake. Her family was blond, tanned, gorgeous, ambitious, successful. She was none of those things.

“Do not fear, Sydney,” Malik said, mistaking her inability to look him in the eye for shyness. “You look lovely. The king and queen will not find fault with you.”

“Thank you,” she replied. Because there was nothing else to say. Not without sounding pitifully insecure and needy.

Soon, they were exiting the house and climbing into a sleek silver Bugatti. The engine roared like a tiger as Malik accelerated onto the thoroughfare. She turned her head, gazed at the city lights instead of at him. The sports car was super expensive, but the interior was small. He sat so close to her. Too close.

She could smell his skin, the scent of his shampoo. She could feel his heat as if he were curled around her.

Or maybe that was her heat as her body reacted to him.

His voice sliced into the silence. “My brother does not know why you are here.”

Sydney whipped her head around to stare at him. For a moment she wondered if she’d heard him correctly. But no, that was what he’d said. “You didn’t tell him about the divorce? Why not?”

Malik’s fingers on the wheel were strong, sure. She dragged her gaze from them and concentrated on the stubborn set of his handsome jaw.

“Because it is our business, not anyone else’s.”

She could only gape at him. “But we’ve been apart for over a year. Don’t you imagine he’s suspicious?”

“People do attempt to reconcile, Sydney.” He glanced into the rearview mirror, changed lanes smoothly and quickly. “Unless you wish to spill our personal problems tonight, I suggest you pretend to be happy.”

Pretend to be happy. As if a river of hurt had not passed between them. As if she could simply flip a switch and act as if her heart hadn’t broken because of this man. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

He shot her an exasperated look. “It’s not difficult. Smile. Laugh. Don’t glare at me.”

She folded her arms across her breasts. “Easier said than done,” she muttered.

Malik’s fingers flexed on the wheel, his tension evident. “It’s one night, Sydney. I think you can handle it.”

Ten minutes later, they were driving through the palace gates and pulling up to the massive entry. Malik told her to wait, then came around and helped her from the car. He tucked her arm into his and led her toward the entry. All along the red carpet lining the walkway, men in uniform bowed as they passed.

And then they were inside the palace, and Sydney was trying very hard not to crane her neck. She’d seen opulence before, of course. She’d shown houses to the very rich, and she’d lived with Malik for a month in Paris. She knew what wealth could do.

But this place was more than she’d expected. Crystal chandeliers, mosaic tiles, Syrian wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, Moorish arches and domes, delicate paintings on silk, marble floors.

Her heels clicked across the tiles, the sound echoing back down to her from the vaulted ceiling. “Did you grow up here?” she asked, and then wished she hadn’t spoken. Her voice sounded very loud in the silent rooms, as if she’d shouted the question rather than whispered it.

“No,” he said curtly. His body was tense, but a moment later she sensed a softening in him. As if he were trying to follow his own advice and pretend they were not on the edge of disaster. “My family was not in the direct line for the throne. Adan came to power when our cousin died, and then our uncle afterward. It has been an adjustment for all of us, but for him most of all.”

“‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown’,” she quoted.

“Henry the Fourth, Part Two,”
Malik said without pause.

“I didn’t know you liked Shakespeare.” They’d gone to the opera a couple of times, to the ballet once—but never to a play. Why had they never discussed Shakespeare? She’d wanted to study literature and art in college, but her parents wouldn’t hear of it. It was a business degree or no degree.

Liberal arts majors worked in the food service industry, according to her father. Business majors made the world go around.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,
habibti.”

But before she could ask him anything else, they reached a door with two guards stationed on either side. One of the guards opened the door, and then they were entering what looked to be a private area that was infinitely homier than the palace they’d passed through.

A very attractive, but otherwise normal-looking couple came to greet them. It took Sydney a few moments to realize this was the king and queen of Jahfar. The pregnant queen, with her long tawny hair streaked with sun-kissed highlights, looked more like a California girl than Sydney did.

“Call me Isabella,” the queen said when Malik introduced them. Sydney instantly liked Isabella. King Adan, on the other hand, was imposing. He and Malik were the same height and breadth, but Adan looked harder, harsher, more serious. The weight of that crown, no doubt.

And possibly the weight of his disapproval of her. Sydney dropped her gaze as he studied her. He was no doubt remembering that phone call. Hearing Malik tell him again that he’d made a mistake when he’d wed an American girl with no money or connections.

“Welcome to Jahfar, sister,” the king said, kissing her on both cheeks. “You are long overdue for a visit.”

“I—thank you, Your Majesty.” She could feel the color rising, creating twin spots of flame in her cheeks.

Malik took her hand, pulled her to his side and anchored an arm around her. She was grateful for it, if only for the way it diverted Adan from studying her so intently. His gaze swept over them both, and then he was turning and leading the way to the dining room.

He was so like Malik. Intense, dark, handsome. They were clearly brothers, both with the same bronzed skin, chiseled bone structure and rich voices. And yet there seemed to be a coolness between them, a reserve.

Sydney thought she must be wrong at first, but all throughout the dinner she noticed how formal they were with one another. Like business associates rather than family.

It was Isabella who was the social butterfly, who smoothed the conversation when it reached a rough patch, who kept them talking when it seemed there was nothing else to say. She was warm and witty and full of personality.

For the first time, Sydney didn’t feel so intimidated by what she thought life as a sheikh’s wife must entail. Isabella was nothing like Sydney had expected—and that was a good thing.

When dinner was over, Isabella suggested they take coffee on the terrace—but not before she asked Sydney to accompany her to the nursery to check on her son.

“The truth is that I wanted to talk to you alone,” Isabella said as she closed the nursery door behind them after their visit.

“Oh,” Sydney said. “All right.” She was still feeling entranced by Rafiq’s dark curls, with the way he’d been lying on his back, his head to one side and his little leg kicked up. She’d not actually thought much about children with Malik, though she’d expected they would have had them after they’d been married for a while.

Now the thought made her heart squeeze tight.

Isabella took her hand and led her to a sitting area tucked away in an alcove. “I know it’s probably difficult for you,” Isabella said once they’d sat down facing each other. “It’s not easy to put a marriage back together after so much time away. But I want you to know it’s possible. Al Dhakir men are worth the trouble, even when you think you’d cheerfully strangle them and leave them for dead.”

Sydney made herself smile. “Did the king give you trouble?”

Isabella laughed. “Far more than you’d like to hear about, though I think I was probably the one who caused the most trouble. But we survived it. And you can, too. Give Malik a chance. He’s a good man—they all are— but they don’t always know how to reach out to the ones they love.”

Love.
Now that was definitely not an issue with Malik since he did not love her. But Sydney wasn’t about to say so, especially when she could see how much the king absolutely adored his wife. His eyes smoldered when he looked at her. His expression lit up. He touched her often, even if it was just a light touch of his hand on hers.

Once, she would have given anything for Malik to feel that way about her. It was too late now, but she wouldn’t say so to the queen.

“I’ll remember that,” she said, dropping her eyes from the earnest look in Isabella’s. The queen truly believed what she said, and while Sydney was glad it had worked out for them, she knew it was hopeless for her and Malik. You couldn’t put back together what had never been there in the first place.

Isabella squeezed her hand. “Good. Now why don’t we go have that coffee, hmm?”

Thunder woke her in the middle of the night. Sydney sat up in alarm, her heart pounding, certain she hadn’t heard correctly. This was a desert country—they didn’t have thunderstorms. Or did they?

Another crash sounded, and then a flash of lightning. Sydney grabbed her robe and stumbled from the bed. A hot gust of wind rippled her clothing as she opened the doors and stepped onto the terrace in her bare feet. The stones were still warm from the afternoon sun. Another flash of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the sea and the thunderclouds hanging over the water.

It had taken her hours to fall asleep. Jet lag was partly to blame. Malik was the other part of the equation. They’d driven back to his home in silence after dinner with the king and queen. Sydney had wanted to ask him questions about the evening, about his family, but she’d been unable to find her voice.

She’d kept expecting him to speak to her, but beyond a cursory question about how she’d enjoyed the food, he’d said nothing else. When they’d arrived, he’d bid her a good night and left her standing alone in the entry.

Another gust of wind blew her hair across her face. She shoved it to the side and breathed deeply of the rain-scented air. It reminded her of storms back home when she was a kid, of the way she’d made up stories in her head about giant knights slaying fire-breathing dragons in the sky.

Her father had said she was too fanciful. Alicia had always laughed and gone back to playing office with her dolls.

“It looks worse than it is.”

Sydney spun to find Malik sitting at the other end of the terrace. He unfolded his frame from a chair, stalked toward her. Her heart was already hammering from the thunder, but it kicked up several notches as another flash of lightning illuminated the sky.

Dear God, Malik wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Sydney swallowed as he came to halt in front of her.

“Will it actually rain?”

He tilted his head up, exposing his throat as he gazed at the sky. She remembered nibbling that throat. Sucking the skin there. A dart of sensation throbbed between her legs. She could feel herself growing wet, feel the aching heaviness of sexual arousal. His chest was broad, sculpted with muscle. Lightly sprinkled with hair that tapered into a
V,
leading the eye down, down, down to the waistband of the faded jeans he wore.

Sydney jerked her gaze back up, but not quite in time. Malik was watching her, his dark gaze smoldering with intensity.

“Like what you see?”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder again. Why lie? He’d see right through her anyway. “Yes. But it doesn’t matter if I like it or not, because I’m not traveling that road again.”

His chuckle was a sexy vibration in his throat. “It won’t rain here tonight, but we could quench our thirsts in other ways. I’m sure you remember how good it was between us, Sydney.”

“I don’t care,” she said, her voice catching at the end.

He reached out with one hand, tucked a strand of hair that had blown free behind her ear. A shiver ran the length of her. He was different now. Not as reserved as earlier. After they’d left the palace, he’d been silent, tense. She’d wanted to know why, but she’d been unable to ask.