Craving Beauty

Ten

The party was as he'd expected. Except for a few men and women he respected, the glittering ballroom was full of debutantes who did lunch and slept with other women's husbands, and those same husbands. None of them dared to approach Marc because he wasn't known to be kind to their species, but he noted the way they looked at his wife.

"Stay close," he warned her.

She gave him an amused look. "I can negotiate these waters. I'm used to being talked about."

He nodded. "Don't let them hurt you or I'll have to get mean."

"Yes, sir." Laughter lit her eyes.

Despite her words she did stay close to him for most of the night. Toward the end of the evening she whis­pered, "I'm going to powder my nose."

He nodded and watched her walk off. Lord, but she was stunning. The other men had been noticing all night.

But, scared off by her ice-queen expression, none of them had had the temerity to approach her. He had to hide a grin. His wife was anything but ice but she could do ice extremely well.

At that, an earlier thought intruded. Underneath her glittering beauty, Hira had been just a little stiff ever since they'd arrived, though on the drive over, she'd been her usual warm self. It was hardly noticeable, but he knew her well enough, had seen her without her shields too many times to be. fooled. The second they were alone, he'd find out what was bothering his wife. And then he'd dedicate himself to soothing her. Smil­ing, he turned his attention back to the party.

He got caught up in a conversation with the guest of honor for the next ten minutes, and when he looked around for Hira, he couldn't see her. Intuition had him heading out to the hallway, off which the ladies' pow­der room was located. His eyes narrowed when he saw Lydia walk out of the white-painted door, a smirk on her face.

Her blue eyes lit up when she saw him. "Darling!" She went to kiss him on the cheek. Behind her back, he saw the door reopen and a familiar figure walk through.

Without any hesitancy, he pushed Lydia aside. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He hated being ma­nipulated. Even worse, he hated being used as an instru­ment to hurt his wife.

Lydia wobbled in her high heels. "But, Marc, our relationship..."

He'd been trying to be gentlemanly, but when he saw Hira's eyes darken in pain, he stopped pulling his punches. "Last time I saw you, you were showing me your breasts and asking if I'd like a taste. I believe I re­fused and told you to get your tail back to that old man you married. Isn't. That. Right." He made it a command.

Lydia's face went white. "You bastard."

"I may be, but I'm an honest one. Why the hell would you interest me when I've married a woman who out­shines you by megawatts?" Walking over, he hauled Hira to him. She came without hesitation. "By the way, if I ever again catch you taunting Hira, I'll ensure that the tape of you propositioning me finds its way into your husband's hands."

"You're lying." Lydia sounded shaky.

"Do you really think I'd trust you an inch?" He turned and looked down at his wife's still face. She'd been hurt by Lydia. Without further words he headed for the exit.

Marc flicked on the light in their bedroom and turned to Hira. She hadn't said a word on the drive home and he hadn't pushed, though his simmering temper had de­manded to know everything. Hauling her inside, he locked the door, shutting her in with him.

"Now, you'll tell me every lie that bitch spouted." He crowded her until she was pressed against the wall. Her purse dropped to the floor as he wrapped one hand gent­ly around her nape.

"How do you know they were lies?" Her pulse pounded against his hand, but her tone was defiant, her eyes beginning to burn with inner fire.

"Because Lydia wouldn't know honesty if it bit her."

He crowded her some more until her soft breasts pressed against the jacket of his tux.

"Stop giving me orders," she hissed. "And back off."

"No." His woman had been hurt and he wanted an explanation as to why she'd let that happen.

She blinked at the uncompromising denial. "You are not behaving as American men are supposed to."

"How am I behaving?"

"Like one of the desert chieftains. They're known to be primitive."

"Is that so, cher? Then you'd better start talking. Us primitive types aren't known for our patience." His eyes drifted to the lushness of her lips. Before his civilized side could talk him out of it, he leaned down and kissed her the way he'd been wanting to all night. Pure heat and pure, possession.

Her soft lips parted for him, inviting him into her mouth. He took the invitation and claimed her sweetness. His free hand went to her breast but he didn't like the feel of her sparkly dress against his skin. Without releasing her lips, he pushed the strap down and slipped his hand under the dress to close around one heavy globe.

Hira jerked, but her arms came around his neck in per­mission that he hadn't asked for. Rubbing his thumb across her nipple, he broke the kiss only long enough to allow her a breath and then he ravished her again, massaging her breast with a hand that knew exactly what she liked.

"What did she say?" he asked, raising his head.

Her lips were wet, her eyes sleepy looking but her mind sharp. "You're trying to seduce me to get your way."

"Yes." He plucked at her nipple before cupping her breast again. "I'm a bastard of a negotiator."

"No, you're merely determined." Her lips curved in an indulgent smile. "Lydia said much, but it all came down to the fact that you were sorry to have married me and were madly in love with her, that you had begged her to come to your bed despite the fact that she was married."

Raw rage whipped through him. Leaving her breast, he pushed both hands through her lush fall of hair. "And you believed her?" He was furious with her for think­ing so little of him.

Her eyes narrowed. "I told her that you'd never lower yourself to trash such as she was."

He wasn't fully mollified. "Then why the hell did she look so happy?"

"I believe she thought to drive a wedge between us by planting seeds of doubt in my mind."

"Did she succeed?"

"You are a man with much pride. You'd never beg the favors of a woman who had rejected you."

"You know me." He pressed impossibly closer. Only her height in heels allowed her to meet his gaze. "But you believed some of it. You looked like hell."

"No. I was hurt at being reminded that though you say many things which make me think you value me as more than just a pretty face, I'm still a trophy wife to you, like Lydia is to her husband. Most of the couples there tonight were successful men with beautiful young women they treat as ornaments. I fitted right in."

His control snapped. "Trophy wife?" he asked very softly. He'd been torn up at the sight of her in pain and she considered herself a trophy wife? He was sick of try­ing to get through to her. Maybe it was time to use non-verbal communication of the kind they were best at. Putting his hands on her waist, he lifted her. "Legs around my waist."

She obeyed. "What are you doing, husband?"

Good. She sounded wary. But beneath the wariness was trust that soothed the raw edges of his temper.

"Teaching you that whatever else you might be, you're no trophy. Trophies get put up on a shelf and admired. I want you in my hands, to touch and please and own in a far different way." He reached under her dress and made short work of her fragile panties.

She gasped. "This is..." Her words were lost as his fingers probed her, testing her for readiness. Within a few strokes, he was rewarded with damp heat. The scent of her desire rose in the air.

"Yes, cher," he said. "That's it."

She hit his shoulder with a closed fist. "Do not talk to me as you would to a horse."

Some of his masculine possessivehess retreated under that sharp-voiced command. Only some. "But, baby, you respond so beautifully to a little coaxing." He slid a finger deep into her, gentle with her in spite of the desire running rampant through his body.

She cried out and clutched his shoulders. When her eyes opened, they were full of some feminine mystery he couldn't hope to understand. Clenching around his finger, she pulled his head to hers. He went, his free hand breaking a strap on her dress to give him easy ac­cess to her breasts. As one hand closed around her flesh, her teeth scraped his lips.

"Biting, Hira?" He grinned. "Tut, tut." Another fin­ger deep within her.

Her eyes flashed, even as tiny feminine muscles rip­pled around him. "I will make you pay for this, Marc."

He started kissing her neck, wondering if she knew just how rawly sexy she looked with her dress tumbling off to half expose one breast and completely free the other, her hair falling wild and free onto her shoulders and her long, silky legs wrapped around his waist. Sud­denly it was too much. She was hot and more than ready.

Removing his hand, he went to work on the fasten­ing of his pants. Holding her gaze, he guided himself to her and then thrust. She gasped and blinked, and it was all he could do to stop with that first deep thrust sunk in the velvet heat of her body.

"Move!" she ordered, breathless.

Since he had no objection to the idea, he moved. Again and again and again until he couldn't think and there was such erotic pleasure, it felt as if his whole body was going up in flames.

Hira wondered how she had never, in all her re­searches, come across the mention of how erotic it was to be made love to by a fully clothed man when one was almost naked. Though she couldn't remember how they had got there, she was now in bed, completely naked. Her forest-green gown was hanging over the back of a chair by the vanity. Beside her, Marc lay sprawled on his back, one arm thrown across his eyes. He remained dressed except for his shoes, which he'd apparently kicked off at some stage.

Very carefully, she sat up and looked down at her husband. Over six feet of long, lean man, he was pres­ently asleep. She was glad. Tonight something fundamental had changed in her thinking about their rela­tionship and she needed time to come to terms with it. Her husband had behaved as an enraged male whose wife had done something that displeased him, rather than as a man annoyed with a woman he'd acquired for her ornamentation value alone.

It was a very sharp distinction. One was a reaction fueled by emotion, the other by logic. Whatever else it had been, their joining had not been logical. It had been decidedly out of control and that was something her hus­band guarded fiercely against. Tonight, at the party, she'd overheard people discussing his reputation of icy control in the most stressful circumstances.

Except, with her, he'd always been fire and heat.

The bruised bloom in her heart unfurled into full flower at the revelation that her husband was truly not indifferent to her. The hope she'd felt the night she'd realized they'd somehow become a unit, reawakened. She had yet to understand the depth of what Marc felt for her, but it was surely something far more than mere de­sire.

Perhaps the love in her heart wasn't doomed.

It had taken her a long time to accept that this wild hunter of a man had found a foothold in her soul, but she was a woman who knew herself. Marc Bordeaux was the one. The only one. In her deepest heart, she must've known that when she'd acceded to her father's demands; she was far too smart a woman not to have found a way out if she'd been desperate. She'd been stalling Kerim for months before Marc came on the scene.

Marc shifted on the bed, throwing his arm wide, and she realized he had to be uncomfortable. Experimentally she reached out, undid his bow tie and slipped it off his neck. He didn't react. Emboldened, she managed to get his jacket and shirt off him by moving him around when it didn't seem to wake him. Then, biting her lip, she got rid of his pants and socks, leaving him clad in plain black briefs. Still asleep, he turned over onto his stom­ach, and she couldn't help stroking his back, his skin hot and vibrant under her fingertips.

A glance at the clock showed that it was 2:00 a.m., but she was hungry, having eaten nothing but hors d'oeuvres since lunch. Carefully covering Mate with a light blanket, she pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck, slipped into his formal white shirt and went down to the kitchen.

Marc chanced opening his eyes after a minute of si­lence. Groaning, he turned over in an effort to ease the pressure on his rigid arousal. Growing up as he had, never knowing when a vicious blow would shatter his rest, he slept lightly. He'd woken the moment Hira had but had kept his eyes closed, wondering what she'd do. And had learned that being undressed by a naked woman, whose breasts kept teasing you with every movement, was sheer torture.

He hadn't been ready to talk to her, uncertain of her reaction to what had happened between them tonight. Whatever else, she couldn't back away from this in­ferno. She was no more a trophy wife than he was a prize husband. However, his little deception had had an unexpected side effect.

His chest tightened as he recalled her tender kiss on his nape and the way she'd carefully covered him up. They hadn't been the acts of an angry woman or even a woman who saw him as a duty. It had been care, pure and simple. He'd already known his wife had a big heart from seeing her with the children, but until now he'd never really felt the power of that heart. She'd done lit­tle things for him but they were all very wifely things, and he'd thought she felt duty bound to do them. But, tonight...tonight she'd gone far beyond duty.

Throwing off the blanket, he went in search of Hira, finding that he was greedy for her. He located her at the kitchen counter eating a piece of bread slathered with crunchy peanut butter. Her eyes widened at his entrance but he didn't stop, walking around to stand beside her. Leaning down, he bit off the other end of her bread.

She swallowed. "You are hungry, too, husband?"

He nodded. "Why did you put on a shirt to come down?"

Taking another bite, she offered him more. He took it, demolishing almost the entire remainder. She waited and fed him that last bit before turning to get another slice from the loaf at her elbow. It was another small ex­ample of her inherently generous nature.

"Because it would be immodest to walk around un­clothed." With efficient movements, she spread peanut butter on the bread.

"But it's only us." He moved closer, rubbing her cheek with his knuckles, daring to display the affection that had changed his view of himself. "Come on, I dare you to take it off."

A soft smile on her lips, she raised the hand holding the piece of bread to his mouth. After a bite, he nudged her hand back to her own mouth. She took a small bite and chewed. Then, a smile flirting with her lips, she asked, "Why are you in such a mood?"

"Let's see, I had amazing sex with my wife a few hours ago and, since she doesn't appear to be holding my somewhat Neanderthal behavior against me, I'm raring to go again and I was hoping to create some sexy atmosphere. How's that?" He allowed her to feed him again. "Humor me."

She smiled and blushed. "But—"

"If we can't be free with each other, who can we be free with?" Even as he said it, he realized that it applied to more than sexual exploration. He'd never truly trusted anyone and he badly wanted to trust his wife.

She handed him the slice of bread. Then, nibbling at her lush lower lip, she lifted her hands to the buttons of his dress shirt. His eyes were riveted to those elegant fin­gers. She undid the first button. He took a deep breath. She did the second one. He groaned.

"Faster, cher." He wanted to reach out and haul her to his chest, but no way was he going to interrupt this very private show.

"What would be the fun in that?" Her question held teasing laughter, and the look in her tawny eyes said she was enjoying herself.

"Did I indicate this was supposed to be fun for you?" He fed her a bite from the remaining bread. "This is sex­ual gratification for me alone."

"Is that so?" Another button. The valley between her breasts was a shadowed treasure, the softness of her belly a silky plain for his exploration. "What if I wish for some gratification, too?"

"You can have it later. After I'm done." Finishing off the bread, he stood there, completely concentrat­ing on her.

She laughed, the sound husky and intimate, and re­leased the last button. The darkness between her thighs was an invitation he gladly took, cupping her gently. Sighing, she leaned closer. With a single lithe movement of her shoulders, the shirt went to the floor.

He ran his hand up from her heat to flatten over her stomach. "Damn, you're lovely." Her face fell. "No," he ordered. "None of that. Sure, your body is hot, but you know what makes you perfect?"

She shook her head slowly, wary eyes holding a vul­nerability that made him want to cherish her forever.

"The fact that you adore my body despite my scars, say yes to playing with me at this ridiculous hour even after the stunt I pulled tonight, and have peanut butter stuck to your bottom lip."

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide. He pulled the hand off and licked the spot off. "Yum."

She giggled and stepped back. As he watched, she put her finger in the peanut butter jar and dabbed a spot on her lip again. Surprised, he leaned forward and licked it off. Her hand went to her breasts and each nipple was coated.

"You sure know how to gratify this man." First, he sucked the finger she held out to him, cleaning it off. Then he made slow work of each morsel, his hands stroking her bottom. When he stood to his full height again, it was to face a woman with a passion-soft face, eyes heavy-lidded and a sweet, sexy smile on her lips. Reaching out a hand, she traced the shape of his mouth.

"Still hungry?" Her voice was a husky whisper.

"A little." He backed her up until her bottom hit the edge of the counter. Then he lifted, setting her down on die marble. She spread her legs and he stood between them. Reaching to the right, he found the squeezable bottle of honey that was one of her favorite treats. Grin­ning, he held it up. "Want to play some more?"

Her eyes widened. "Husband, you are bad." An in­viting look appeared on her face. "I love honey."

"So do I, cher. So do I." He'd never felt this carefree in his life. Flipping open the lid, he held the bottle up­side down and started to draw meandering swirls of honey over her breasts, her stomach, lower.

She sighed when he put down the bottle and started to lick his way down her body, swirling his tongue, using his teeth to scrape, his fingers to smooth. Minutes later she began to tremble. He stroked his hands on her thighs as he bent over to lick her stomach. Her beauti­ful feminine muscles clenched under his attentions. He kept going, pulling her bottom closer to the edge to fa­cilitate his taste of honey.

Her hands clenched in his hair as he tracked the last possible drop, lapping at her most sensitive flesh. Moans filled the kitchen as his wife climaxed, surrendering to the pleasure he lavished on her. Satisfied by her shud­ders, he rose and picked her up in his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist.

"Where are you taking me, husband?"

"Do you care?"

"No. You may take me wherever you wish,"

He narrowed his eyes at that double entendre, unsure whether it was just her grasp of English or deliberate provocation until he caught the hint of mischief in those tawny depths. "I'll remember that the next time I see you bent over the kitchen table."

Her laughter filled the night. When he sat down in a chair, with her spread over him, she slid her hand be­tween their bodies and down. "Why is it that you are al­ways clothed when I'm naked?"

"Bad timing?" He groaned as she slipped her hand under the elastic waistband of his briefs. Stroking him gently, she chuckled at his response.

A man could only take so much. Barely ten seconds later, he'd kicked off his only item of clothing and got himself covered in a much more pleasurable fashion. She slid onto him like hot silk. And then she rode him.

Given their newfound joy in each other, the plane trip to Zulheil the next day was markedly different from their first flight together. Marc had brought along pa­pers to look over but didn't even take them out of his briefcase, too enchanted by his wife.

More at ease on this flight, she teased him to laugh­ter and tangled her fingers with his, her eyes holding a look of pride. "You're a most magnificent man," she whispered, halfway through the flight.

He could feel a blush creeping up the back of his neck. "What brought that on?"

She winked at him and pressed a spontaneous kiss to his cheek. "Can a wife not simply compliment her husband?" Putting her head on his shoulder, she settled against him, warm and...loving?

He didn't dare think that he might've found his dreams, but he could almost imagine that he was see­ing the real woman, with none of her customary masks.

Only one thing gave him pause—the way she still occa­sionally looked at him after a particularly saucy com­ment, as if anticipating a rebuke.

He knew that her reaction was rooted in the emo­tional abuse she'd witnessed in her home, scenes of a wife being humiliated by the very man who should've been her champion. He hated it, but he could forgive her that instinctive reaction: Yet so long as that look was in her eyes, he couldn't expect her full commitment to him as a man, as a husband. Before she took that chance, she'd have to accept that he'd die before turning into a man like her father. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to help her reach that point. In this shatteringly important moment, he was helpless.

"Have you ever been inside the royal palace?" Marc asked Hira on their second night in Zulheil, fiddling with his bow tie and hoping the evening would be cool.

She moved to him and took over the job. "Yes, of course. The royal palace is open to its citizens, aside from the private wings for the family. But you're one of the very few foreigners who has been allowed access."

He was aware of the privilege and the duty it carried. Trust in this desert land was given slowly but would hold fast unless he abused it. "Impressive, isn't it?" His eyes followed Hira as she moved away to pull on a top coat of the finest gossamer silk.

The sheer fabric was an almost metallic silver and was gathered under her breasts with a single tie. The rest of the coat fell to float just above the floor, splitting open over her legs to display an underskirt of thick silver satin. The long-sleeved silver top she wore underneath the gauze overlapped the top of the skirt and was heavi­ly embroidered with tiny white pearls. The material seemed shot with shards of pure crystal.

"I may be a mere male but I like what I see." Marc was looking at her appreciatively when she turned.

In Hira's eyes, he was the gorgeous one, big, dark and very masculine. "It's a Jasmine Zamanat creation."

His eyes sharpened as he recognized the name of the sheik's wife, a well-known designer. "Clever little witch. Getting us brownie points with the palace, are you?"

She was pleased by the compliment in his eyes. "It will not hurt, though they won't be so easily swayed. But I truly like her designs so it's no hardship."

"You're definitely easy on the eyes. Let's go, princess. The drive from Abraz to Zulheina will take a while. Wouldn't want to be late for this meeting."

Though informal, the meeting with the sheik was important. If things went favorably, Marc would be al­lowed to sign an agreement with Zulheil to export a du­rable, flexible plastic discovered by its scientists.

"And aside from its other advantages," Marc said as they got out of their limo in front of the palace, after hav­ing been cleared by security, "it crunches down into small packages. So it's very portable and can be used for tents, et cetera."

"Which means it can have military applications as well as many other uses." Hira nodded. "Why hasn't it already been exported?"

"It hasn't been a priority for Zulheil with their gem-stone business bringing in so much income. But the rest of the world could do with it."

Just then, a beautiful redhead dressed in a lovely sky-blue top and skirt in the way of Zulheil, walked through the palace doorway. "Welcome." She smiled and held out her hands to Hira. "I'm so delighted you could fi­nally make it. I hear that you had to reschedule because of the welfare of a child."

"Jasmine al eha Sheik, it is an honor," Hira began, a little overcome at the easy welcome from the most pow­erful woman in the country, though it was well known mat neither the sheik nor his wife stood much on pomp and ceremony.

Jasmine waved a hand. "Call me Jasmine. Ah. . .here he is." Letting go of Hira's hands, she looked over her shoulder at the man who'd appeared beside her. Her eyes held such deep and abiding love that the warmth of it was an almost physical touch.

Hira noticed the way Sheik Tariq's hand immedi­ately settled on his wife's hip, the way the two shared a secret smile before he spoke.

"Dinner is served and the demon who is pretend­ing to be our son is fast asleep. Welcome to our home." He shook Marc's hand and turned to lead them inside.

Almost immediately the men fell back behind the women, already beginning to talk business. Hira was a little irritated at being disregarded so easily.

"You're annoyed," said the woman by her side.

Hira glanced at Jasmine. "Lady..."

"Call me Jasmine and don't worry about it. He an­noys me on occasion, too." Her smile was open.

Hira decided to be honest. "I don't like being side­lined when serious matters are being discussed."

"Neither do I. That's why we'll be talking about a dif­ferent idea that I've cooked up with Tariq."

Hira's eyes widened. "Another proposal?"

"As you know, Zulheil likes to keep to itself. When we find someone we like, we try and squeeze our worth out of them. Tariq trusts your husband's integrity and acumen."

"And what about me?" She wasn't going to be ignored.

"Until this evening, though we've had dealings with Marc, you were an unknown commodity. Tariq knows you socially but I've only seen you once."

"I remember. In the gardens after your marriage." Aware that Jasmine must've been informed of the Dazirah family's attempts to make a match between her and the sheik, Hira had known that this lovely woman wouldn't appreciate her presence. So she'd tried to stay in the background, despite her parents having urged her to find someone else with royal connections, since many important visitors had been at the gathering.

Jasmine led them into a beautiful formal dining room. "Yes. My husband expects you to earn his respect. It's the same demand he makes of everyone."

Hira nodded, accepting the fairness of that.

"But," Jasmine continued, giving her a shrewd look. "I've made my decision. You're no pretty trophy. That husband of yours wouldn't look at you the way he does if you were."

"And how is that?"

"With the deepest pride. If he is as akin to the men of Zulheil as he appears, then that's a great thing in­deed."

Jasmine turned to take a seat beside her husband on the other side of the comfortably small table.

A little shaken by the power of that quiet statement, Hira took the chair Marc held out for her. There were no servants in the dining area tonight, because this was most definitely a meeting, despite the abundance of de­licious dishes on the table. He touched her fleetingly on the shoulder before taking his seat.

It made her aware of how he always touched her, and had done so since shortly after she'd learned about the orphanage. A caress, a stolen kiss, a squeeze of the fin­gers, she'd become so used to being touched by Marc that she'd never questioned what it meant. . .until she'd seen the sheik touch his wife, and realized that for a strong man to show such open affection implied a great deal of feeling.

Smiling, she turned to him as he sat down and gent­ly put her hand on his thigh, out of sight of the others. He looked startled but then favored her with that slow smile that always proved lethal to her composure. His hand drifted down to hers and their ringers intertwined. "Let's begin with a toast." Tariq held up his glass and they followed. "To a long and happy partnership."

They all clinked glasses. The dinner took more than four hours, with all of them ending up in a small sitting room talking over several documents. Hira spent con­siderable time discussing an interesting idea regarding the tigereye prism with Jasmine. Marc didn't even check up on her once, and his trust that she'd look after their interests cemented her love for him as nothing else could've done.