Marriage Behind the Fa?ade (8 page)

“I preferred to find my own bride. Which, as you see, I have done.” Malik looked murderously angry as he came over and snaked an arm around her. Sydney had no idea what his intent was—she was still stunned by the news that Adan had found Malik a bride, and that he’d refused to marry her.

When Malik pulled her close and dropped a kiss on her lips, Sydney could only gasp.

“Mother, you will greet my wife properly. Or you will leave.”

“Malik,” Sydney began, “that’s not necessary.”

His grip on her tightened. “It is completely necessary. This is our home.”

His mother got to her feet in an elegant flurry of fabric and jewels. “I was leaving anyway.”

Sydney watched Malik’s mother start for the door. Her pulse was pounding. Her head throbbed. She felt suddenly hot, uncomfortable. This woman was Malik’s mother—and she despised Sydney, not for any other reason than because she was a foreigner who had married her son.

No wonder he’d been reluctant to bring her to Jahfar. But she couldn’t let him do this, couldn’t allow there to be hard feelings between mother and son on her account. Not when there was no reason for it.

“Tell her the truth, Malik,” Sydney said, stepping away from the circle of his arm. She had to play this cool. Collected. She could feel Malik’s disapproval as she went and poured a cup of coffee for herself.

Malik’s mother stopped and turned to her son. “Tell me what?”

Malik looked furious. And not with his mother this time. “Now is not the occasion,” he growled.

“When would you suggest is a better time?” Sydney asked. “Tell her what she wants to hear. Don’t torture her.”

Malik’s mother looked from her son to Sydney. She was a small woman, slim and graceful, with the same hawklike eyes as her sons. She looked fierce, proud. Also like her sons, Sydney thought.

“Malik?”

He didn’t look at his mother. Instead, he was looking at her. Glaring at her. “Sydney and I are discussing a divorce.”

It wasn’t quite what she’d wanted him to say, but it was enough. It certainly had the desired effect, as his mother seemed to visibly melt with relief.

“Very sensible of you,” she said. She turned to where Sydney stood with her coffee. “I’m happy to see that you do have some sense after all. You must know you don’t belong here.”

Sydney tilted her chin up. “I know it very well.”

She’d once hoped against hope that it wasn’t true, but she knew she didn’t belong in Malik’s life. She’d had a year to figure it out. And even if she hadn’t, the last couple of days had driven the message home with sonorous finality. Sydney Reed was not meant to be a prince’s wife.

Malik’s mother nodded before sweeping from the room in a cloud of perfumed silk. Malik did not follow. He stood there, scowling. Sydney pulled out a seat and sank down into it.

She felt remarkably calm somehow. As if she’d faced the deadly storm and come out on the other side stronger for it. And yet, there was a slight tremor in her hand as she set her cup down.

“There is no need to glare at me, Malik. She was going to find out eventually.”

“Yes, but when I wanted her to.”

He was coldly furious, she realized. Her sense of having survived the storm began to ebb. “Why keep it a secret from everyone? It’s not like we’re trying to make this relationship work. We’re coexisting for a purpose. I don’t want to pretend this is something it isn’t.”

She didn’t want any false hope, any magical thinking that would have her starting to believe there was something more between them. Her heart couldn’t take it. A shiver slid across her skin, left goose bumps in its wake.

Because, yes, that was a problem. Being here with him, living with him, being inundated with memories—she was in danger of wanting too much, of believing there was a chance he could love her in return.

Love her in return?

Sydney shoved that thought away with all her might. She would not go there, would not dwell on the past and her feelings then. She did not love Malik. Not anymore. She couldn’t.

How could she, when their conversations lately had proven she’d never really known him at all?

“Once you have finished your breakfast,” Malik said softly—too softly, “you will need to pack your things.”

The coffee cup arrested halfway to her mouth. Her heart dropped into her toes. “You’re sending me away?”

He looked almost cruel. “That would not please you, would it?”

“Well, um, it would mess up the, uh, the divorce,” she said lamely, her heart thudding a million miles a minute.

“Never fear, Sydney. You will get your precious divorce.” The last word was hard, cold. Bitter. “But I have business that is long overdue in my sheikhdom. We are traveling to Al Na’ir without delay.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEY traveled by helicopter. Malik piloted the craft with the expertise of someone who had done so many times before. Yet another thing she had not known about him, Sydney thought sourly. He sat in the pilot’s seat of the military-like craft, his copilot beside him. They wore headsets and communicated from time to time, with each other and with what she presumed was a flight control tower somewhere.

Sydney sat in the back and gazed out the window at the scenery below. The landscape whisked by in the two hours it took to reach Al Na’ir, the red dunes and sandstone cliffs becoming more and more imposing as they flew. For once, she wished she’d bothered to look up Al Na’ir on the map. She knew nothing other than what Malik had once told her—that it was oil-rich and remote.

When the helicopter finally began its descent, she was stunned to see there was nothing around it. They landed on a rocky outcrop, the desert undulating in all directions. The land was barren, stark. There were no buildings, no house.

But there was a Land Rover, she noted with relief. A white vehicle sitting not too far from the landing area. The rotors slowed to a gentle
whop-whop-whop.
Malik descended, and then came to the rear of the helicopter and opened her door. A blast of hot air hit her in the face, taking her breath along with it.

What kind of barren hell was this?

“Where are we?” she managed to ask, grasping Malik’s hand and letting him help her to the ground. She’d changed into a white cotton
abaya,
because he’d told her it would provide better protection from the elements, and a pair of ballet flats. The rocks beneath her feet were hot. The sun bore down on her head, its rays intense. It had not yet reached its zenith, but it was already scorching.

His dark eyes gave nothing away. “We are in Al Na’ir.”

“But where in Al Na’ir?” she pressed. Because this was so remote she could almost believe they were the only people on the planet. It was a frightening feeling in some ways.

“We are in the Maktal Desert,
habibti.
It is the most remote area of Jahfar.”

Sydney swallowed. “And why are we here? Is there more to Al Na’ir than this?”

“Much more. But we are here because I have business.”

She eyed the Land Rover. “Where do we go from here?”

“There is an oasis about an hour’s drive away. We will find shelter there.”

Shelter.
Sydney tried not to let her fear show. She’d never been anywhere so menacing before. “Why did we not simply fly there?” she asked as he reached into the helicopter and grabbed her suitcase.

The copilot came around and helped gather their luggage.

“Sandstorms are a problem. We cannot fly into the deepest desert because the sand will disrupt the engines. We would crash, Sydney. Here, we are on solid rock. It’s as close as we can get to where we have to go.”

“And is driving safe?”

“So long as the engine does not overheat, yes.”

They carried the luggage to the Land Rover and stowed it. Malik said something to his copilot in Arabic. The man replied before bowing deeply. Then he was striding toward the helicopter and climbing inside.

“Get into the car, Sydney,” Malik said. She did as he asked, buckling herself in as he slipped into the driver’s seat. The rotors on the helicopter began to beat harder—and then the craft was lifting off and banking toward the horizon.

Sydney’s heart felt as if it would beat out of her chest. The helicopter was gone, and she was completely alone with Malik in the middle of a harsh desert. If the engine died, would anyone find them?

“Why did he leave?” she asked.

Malik turned to her. “The helicopter cannot stay in the open. If there’s a storm, the sand will gum up the engines. When we are ready to leave, it will return.”

“And when will that be?”

“A few days, perhaps. No more than a fortnight.”

A fortnight? She did the mental calculation—two weeks. Two weeks in the desert with Malik? She hoped it would not come to that. At least in Port Jahfar, she’d felt as if she could escape into the city if she needed time away. There was shopping, culture, activities.

But out here?

The journey to the oasis took longer than an hour. The sun was high overhead, but Malik did not have the air-conditioning cranked on high. It was warm in the Land Rover, though not oppressive.

“To keep the engine from overheating,” he explained, though she did not ask.

They took a fairly flat path through the dunes, though occasionally they rolled up one impossibly high dune to slide down the other side. When she saw a stand of palm trees in the distance, she breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

They pulled to a stop beneath some trees as a group of black-clad men came toward the SUV. They were strong men, fierce men, with piercing dark eyes and sun-wizened features. And they were armed, Sydney noticed, with daggers and pistols clipped to their leather belts.

“Bedu,” Malik said. “They will not harm you.”

“I didn’t think they would,” she replied. Though they did look quite menacing.

Malik climbed from the car and spoke with the Bedu. The men bowed and made obeisance, and then a couple of younger boys were collecting the luggage and carrying it away. Malik came and helped her from the car, and then they were moving across the oasis and toward a large, black tent set beneath a stand of palms.

A shimmering pool of clear water gleamed in the sunlight in the center of the oasis. On one bank, a group of camels and horses stood contentedly, swishing flies with their tails. It was so odd to drive through a stark landscape, and then to come upon water in the middle of seemingly nowhere.

“Where does it come from?” she asked.

Malik followed her gaze. “From a reservoir in the sandstone deep below the surface. It has been there for millennia,” he said. “At one time, this oasis was a vital stop on the trade routes between Jahfar and the north. It is what made the Maktal navigable.”

Sydney imagined the oasis swirling with activity, camel trains coming and going as they followed the trade routes. There was a touch of romanticism to the idea, and yet she knew it would have been a hard life, a life filled with deprivation and danger. Much better to be here today. To arrive by air-conditioned car rather than on the back of a camel.

As she watched, three women trekked to the pool’s edge and began to dip out water into a large trough. Sydney stopped when she realized they were washing clothes.

Malik came to a halt beside her. “It is their way,” he said, as if he knew the sight surprised her.

“It’s so surreal. What would they think if they knew about washing machines?”

Malik laughed. “They might be less impressed than you would imagine. This is a way of life that is very ancient.”

So much for romanticism.

They continued walking toward the tent. The men who’d led the way were waiting at the entrance. Malik spoke to them, and then they were moving away, toward another group of tents at the other end of the oasis. Machinery began to hum nearby. It surprised her, though perhaps it should not have.

“Did they know you were coming?” she asked, shading her eyes to watch them go.

“I have not been here in quite some time. No, they did not know I would arrive today. But this is my land, and I am their sheikh, and therefore they are prepared for me.”

He held the flap open for her and Sydney ducked inside. The confines of the tent were hot, the air still. Malik strode past her and did something she couldn’t see. Then a fan blasted on high. It didn’t cool the air much, but it moved what was there.

“There is a generator,” he explained. “It won’t run an air-conditioning unit, but it will run fans and lights. And refrigeration,” he added. “It has only just been switched on, but soon there will be cold beverages.”

“Amazing,” she replied. A generator in the desert? That explained the machinery she’d heard. “But why this oasis, Malik? What’s here for you?”

Because she was baffled. If there were a large oil industry nearby, they would have power and workers and the infrastructure to support them. There would be no need for a tent in the middle of a desert that seemed about as far from anywhere as you could get.

He looked away, busied himself with turning on other fans. “I have neglected to visit the Bedu. It was time I came.”

Sydney licked her lips. “It could not have waited?”

He turned, speared her with hot dark eyes. “No.”

Sydney let her gaze wander over the tent. It was luxurious, she realized, with bright carpets on the floors and walls, hammered brass tables and even a low-slung couch. What she didn’t see was a bed.

“Where do I sleep?” she asked.

“There is a bedroom.”

She looked around, realized there was a shadowed opening that must lead to another section of the tent. And then what he’d said sunk in. “A bedroom? As in one?”

“Yes, one.”

Her pulse kicked into high gear. One bed. “That won’t work,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as husky as it felt.

“I cannot create another bedroom,
habibti.
This is what is.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

He sauntered toward her, finally halting only inches away. She could feel his heat enveloping her. Her gaze landed on his mouth. That gorgeous, sensual mouth. His lips were full, firm, oh, so kissable.

“Perhaps you should,” he said, his voice a sexy purr. “Perhaps we should explore every nuance of this marriage before ending it permanently.”

“You can’t mean that.” Her heart was pounding, her stomach flipping. Need was pooling in her blood, filling her veins, making her body throb. She could feel the wetness between her thighs, the ache of arousal.

“I might. After this morning’s display, I’m beginning to think I’ve acquiesced far too easily to your demands.”

Sydney blinked. “My demands? You’re the one who forced me to come to Jahfar! I’m simply trying to get through this without a lot of pain for either one of us.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have changed, Sydney. You did not used to be so … cynical.”

She swallowed. “I’m not cynical. I’m just practical.”

“Is that what they call it now?”

“You’re still angry with me because of your mother,” she said after a tense moment of silence in which she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “I’m sorry if you didn’t agree, but I couldn’t let there be hard feelings between you when there was no need for it.”

His sudden laugh was harsh, startling. “I’m afraid you failed, my dear. There have always been hard feelings between my mother and I, and there will continue to be long after you are gone. Your outburst did nothing to relieve that.”

She hurt for him, for the casual way in which he could say that he and his mother were at odds. But then she remembered what he’d said about his childhood, and all she felt was sadness. He’d been raised in wealth and privilege, but he’d never really known what it was like to have a close-knit family. His was all about duty and tradition—without any consideration for love and connection.

She thought of what his mother had said this morning about finding Malik another bride—and it felt as if a puzzle piece suddenly clicked into place.
Of course.

“You married me because you didn’t want to marry the bride they’d picked out, didn’t you?”

“I married you because I wanted to.”

“But doing so got you out of another arranged marriage.”

He hesitated a fraction too long.

“It doesn’t matter.” “It does to me,” she said, her heart throbbing with hurt. She’d been convenient, nothing more. If he’d been dating some other woman at the time, he would no doubt have married her instead. Anything to throw a wrench into his family’s plans.

“Perhaps I married you because I felt something,” he said, his voice dipping. “Did you ever consider that possibility?”

An ache of a different kind vibrated in her heart. “You’re just saying that. Don’t.”

Because she couldn’t take it, not now. Not when she’d spent the last year apart from him, not when he’d failed to contact her even once during their long separation. Those were not the actions of a man who felt anything.

Never mind the conversation she’d overheard with his brother. A conversation he did not deny having.

His eyes gleamed in the darkened tent. “You know me so well, don’t you, Sydney? Always positive that you have my motives pegged. My emotions.”

“You don’t have any emotions,” she flung at him. He stiffened as if she’d hit him, tension rolling from him in waves.

Her heart lurched, her throat constricting against a painful knot. She shouldn’t have said that. This was a man who’d told her, with such anguish, that he’d been responsible for the death of a girl.

Malik felt things. She knew he did.

But she still doubted he’d ever felt much for her. Nevertheless, that did not give her the right.

She dropped her gaze from his, swallowed. There was no moisture in her mouth. “Forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

He sounded stiff, formal. “I think we both know you did.”

You don’t have any emotions.

Malik couldn’t put the words out of his head, no matter how he tried. The sun had sunk behind the dunes hours ago now, and the desert air chilled him. He sat with a group of Bedu who’d gathered around a fire, smoking
shishas
and drinking coffee. He let their talk wash over him, around him. He spoke when necessary, but always his mind was elsewhere.