Craving Beauty

Two

Hira woke later than usual, courtesy of slumber rid­dled with nightmares. Dressing quickly after a hurried shower, she girded herself to go down and face her hus­band's temper, for what man wouldn't hate the woman who'd denied him their marriage bed?

It had been a shameful thing for her to do, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it. An emotionless coup­ling with a man she'd barely spoken to would've made a mockery of all her beliefs about the meaning of the most intimate act between a man and a woman.

Even though the man she'd denied made her body heavy with desire so hot and blinding, it rocked the foundations of her understanding about her own heart.

Shivers raced up her spine at that traitorous thought. Blinking furiously, she fought them off, though she knew that this blazing heat wouldn't disappear so easily. Not when she was wife to die man who was the cause of her confusion.

Expecting a fight, she set her jaw and forced herself to leave her room. But what she found on the lower floor was far more unsettling than an angry husband. Suit­cases lined the hallway, several of them hers.

Shaken, she walked into the living room and saw Marc bent over a table, signing something. "We are leaving?"

His dark-brown hair gleamed in the sunlight angling through the windows as he glanced at her before turn­ing back to his papers. "Yes. In an hour." With strong strokes, he signed his name on another line.

Inordinately crushed by his dismissive attitude, she managed to ask, "Where?"

"My home. Louisiana. Near Lafayette." His words were curt, holding no welcome.

She thought for a moment. "That state has much water but also pra. . .prairies and its borders touch the Gulf of Mexico. Lafayette is near Baton Red. . . No, Baton Rouge. It is sometimes called Cajun Country, is it not?"

The man she was joined to was staring at her. "What, you read encyclopedias in your spare time?"

Since that was exactly what she did, she scowled at his sarcastic tone. "They are very informative." And she was starved for information.

Her father didn't believe in higher education for fe­males, but she'd managed to educate herself, first through books and later through clandestine use of the Internet-linked computer in the study. As a teenager, she'd railed against the unfairness of being denied the educational opportunities lavished on her two uninterested brothers, but had soon realized the futil­ity of her pleas.

"What's your favorite subject?" It was the lack of sar­casm in Marc's question that startled her out of her dark mood.

"You're not making fun of me?" She didn't under­stand his curiosity. Her husband was not reacting as she'd expected. Instead of nursing his anger over their disastrous wedding night, he appeared to be trying to fa­cilitate a conversation between them.

Those piercing eyes seemed to narrow. "No."

"Well then. It is economics, theories of management, things such as that." Aware that it wasn't a feminine type of subject, she stared right back at him, defiant.

"Sure, princess. I believe you." He appeared to be fighting a smile.

Suddenly her frustration erupted. "How dare you. . .what is your word. . .patronize me? You see only what you think to see. You cannot recognize what is beneath the surface for you are a man who buys only on outward appearance!" She turned on her heel, the wind gener­ated by her dark skirts buzzing angrily around her legs. "I will be ready to leave within the hour."

His arrogance made her angry, but beneath the anger the broken edges of lost dreams rubbed her raw with pain.

Despite everything, she'd dared to dream that her American husband would be a man who'd allow her to spread her wings and fly. That hope was now forever lost.

He was just like her father, intent on caging her in the box he'd set aside for her in his mind. She'd fallen for his slow, seductive smile—so rare on that brutally masculine face... a warrior's face—forgetting that being akin to a warrior was no guard against male failings.

Marc frowned as he watched his wife storm out of the room, as regal as a true princess. He'd learned long ago that appearances counted for nothing. Had he com­mitted the cardinal sin and judged his wife on her beau­tiful face rather than what lay within?

It took him only a minute to discard that idea. If she was so damn smart, what was she doing living in her fa­ther's home, on his charity? Zulheil wasn't a restrictionist culture. Sure, the women were well protected and cherished, but they were allowed the same opportuni­ties as their male counterparts.

If nothing else, Hira could've gained the money she needed for study by joining the modeling world. The minute she walked into an agency, the bookers would've crawled on their hands and knees to sign her up. One of his best friends had clawed her way out of poverty using her face, and he respected her for it.

Snorting at almost falling for his spoiled new wife's tricks, he continued to sign papers relating to a minor outstanding matter. He'd have to return to Zulheil in a month or so for a further set of negotiations, but right now he was needed in Louisiana.

Truth to tell, he missed his watery homeland. All this stunning golden desert and too-blue sky could get wear­ing on a matt used to humidity and mosquitoes and the occasional gator.

Hira didn't speak to Marc again until they were wing­ing their way through the clouds, seated side by side in the first-class cabin of a commercial jetliner. Having never flown before, she was feeling more than a little lost and wished Marc would talk to her instead of work­ing on his documents. He might be stubborn and inclined to snap, but at least she knew him. All these other people were strangers, even the flight attendants who smiled at her so nicely but whose eyes were cold.

They thought her nothing but a pretty face, a rich man's newest toy. Marc's dismissive attitude toward her had undoubtedly strengthened that belief. Her anger at the way she was always labeled without being given a chance was a pulsing wound inside her, a wound that grew each time she tried to protect herself by showing a cold face instead of shattering with rage.

Even the times when she'd broken down and cried, she'd done so in the dead of night, in silence. Who could she tell? Who wouldn't laugh at her and call her a "poor little rich girl," as if her looks and her father's wealth meant that she was never to be accorded any real sympathy?

Yet all her life, how she'd envied those plain girls who were adored by their husbands for their laughter and their wit; girls who would never have to worry about being forgotten once their skin wrinkled and their bodies changed. Girls who could joyfully confess to gaining a few pounds, safe in the knowledge that in their husbands' eyes they'd remain forever beautiful.

Despair and hurt tangled inside her soul, making her want to scream and cry at the same time. But she did neither. She'd been brought up to be the perfect daugh­ter and the perfect wife. Seen, not heard. Never heard.

The blond flight attendant passed by again, giving Marc a subtly interested glance. He didn't look up. At least he wouldn't humiliate her by openly flirting with other women, though it was likely that many would throw out lures.

He wasn't a man who could be described as hand­some, but there was something compelling about him. Power and strength, buried passion, depths without end—he had the kind of charisma women found ir­resistible. She'd been pressured into marrying him, but in the privacy of her mind, she admitted that he was a man who made her blush with impure thoughts.

The first time she'd seen him, he hadn't been aware of her scrutiny. She'd been standing in a hidden alcove on the upper floor of their home, looking down onto the banquet hall to check that everything was in order. Barely after she'd arrived, her eyes had landed on Marc, drawn by his magnetic presence.

He'd been standing alone in one corner, his deter­mined and ruthless nature stamped on his features. She didn't fear ruthlessness—all the truly strong males she knew had that element in their makeup. It was part of what made them the powerful men they were.

When he'd moved, she'd imagined him as the most predatory of hunters, all dangerous grace and barely con­tained power. Her eyes had followed him across the room, unable to drag themselves away. Disturbingly, he'd paused midstep and looked right up at the alcove, as if he'd known she was watching.

Shaking from the impact of those ice-gray eyes, she'd retreated with her hand pressed over the thundering beat of her heart. It had taken her half an hour to calm down enough to finally join the banquet.. .where Marc had smiled that slow, secret smile at her and turned her whole world inside out.

In short, her husband was a very sexy man.

But even concentrating on Marc's undeniable sex­ual allure wasn't alleviating her fear. Aware that she couldn't expect sympathy from the man she'd frozen out of their marriage bed, she forced herself to reach for a magazine.

Moments later she watched in dismay as the glossy paper slid out from between fingers numbed by the desperate way she'd gripped the armrests.

Without saying a word, Marc put down his pen and picked up the magazine, placing it atop his papers. Eyes wide, she waited. Before she could ask for its return, he reached over and closed one big hand around her trem­bling fingers. She froze.

"Not a good flier, princess?" There was no mockery in his expression, only concern.

She gave him a watery smile, stunned at his compas­sion. "It is my first. . .flying."

"Your first flight?" His surprise was clear. "I've met your father several times in Munich, L.A., even Madrid.'"

She knew all the facts and figures for those places, could name streets and landmarks, but never had she seen them in reality. "My father believes in unmarried women remaining at home." She tightened her grasp on his hand. "But he never took my mother, either, so perhaps he really believes in keeping all women at home."

Expecting to be reprimanded for her disloyalty, she nonetheless gave him an honest response.

For a moment she thought she saw anger flare in the suddenly dark mists of his eyes. "I didn't think that sort of thing was accepted in Zulheil."

"We are a people with much history. Some stay with the old ways and we do not judge." Except sometimes she wished someone would judge.

In fairness to her homeland, Hira knew that if she'd spoken out, she would've been accorded education, per­haps even an independent life. The sheiks for the past three generations had passed laws to ensure all women had the right to follow their own path. But if she'd brought such attention to herself, her clan's honor would've been forever besmirched in a land where honor was everything.

The Dazirah name was a proud one, with centuries of integrity behind it. Just because her father imprisoned his women with his old-fashioned beliefs didn't mean that the rest of the clan had to be tarred with the same brush.

Her uncles had never stopped their daughters from reaching their full potential.

Marc gave her a sharp look but didn't pursue the topic. Instead, surprising her once more, he talked with her of his home. Every word was filled with a smile.

"I'll take you to see the French Quarter once we've settled in. Princess, there are things round there that'll blow your mind." He seemed delighted at the prospect, his eyes turning liquid silver. "I might even treat you to a trip through the bayou, if you ask real nice."

Hira's heart melted at his teasing words, delivered in that deep voice that was as smooth and tempting as hot honey. It was clear that despite the enmity between them, he was attempting to distract her from her fear. Seduced by the light in his eyes, she couldn't help but remember the first time they'd met face-to-face. It had happened at the same banquet where she'd become aware of his existence.

Catching her eye from across the room, he'd smiled at her in that way she now knew to be rare for him, and she'd felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Her lips had curved of their own accord and she'd found herself smiling back at him, drawn by the fiery warmth in his gaze. Yet when he'd bridged the distance between them, she'd turned away with a haughty look. It had only made his smile wider.

At the time she'd told herself that her response arose from her dislike of the proprietary gleam in his eye. Now she accepted that it had had a deeper root. The feminine heart of her had known that Marc was dangerous to her in the way that only a strong, sexy male could be to a woman. Even knowing that, she'd agreed to marry him.

She felt ashamed that, motivated by fear and anger, she'd put die whole blame for their marriage on him when in truth, she had had a choice. It wouldn't have been easy to go against her father, but she could've done it—she'd done it before. She hadn't been a very good wife to him so far, but despite everything, he was try­ing to help her.

Hope blossomed in her heart. Perhaps, she thought quietly, she'd married a man with whom it might just be worth building a life. Her mother had worried that he was scarred, but the lines on his face did nothing to lesson his raw masculine appeal. If anything, they gave him an even more dangerous male air, enticing the feminine core of her to thoughts that shocked her with their flagrant eroticism.

What did a man's face matter, anyway? Her father was a truly beautiful man, as were her brothers. Romaz could have been a movie star. She had no use for hand­some men.

But for a man with a heart?

For such a man. . .she might risk everything.

As they climbed up the steps to his old plantation-style house, its edges softened with hints of Spanish architecture, Marc took his first true breath in weeks. The moist richness of the bayou air swept into his lungs, wel­coming and accepting.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the line of cypress trees forever trying to sink their roots into the tiny stream that angled past the edge of his property. As he turned, their branches shivered in the soft breeze and he found himself smiling.

Located far from the bustle of New Orleans, south­east of Lafayette, his extensive block of land, bought to nurture a very private dream, hugged the lush green wetlands that sang a song of welcome to him each time he breathed. He was a bayou brat and damn proud of it. "Your home is lovely."

Hira's sultry voice broke into his thoughts, an unwel­come reminder that this homecoming was different. He'd brought a wife with him, an untouchable Beauty who wanted nothing to do with the Beast she'd married.

Despite their truce on the plane, a truce that had tor­mented him with images of what could've been, he knew nothing had truly changed.

Fueled by resentment that she was going to turn his solitary haven into a battleground, his response was curt. "Thanks."

He unlocked the door without glancing back at her and walked through with two of their bags, deliberately keeping his hands full. Hira would hardly appreciate being carried over the threshold, even though some primitive part of him wanted to ritualize her entrance into his territory. When she didn't immediately fol­low, he dropped the bags to the floor and turned around.

She was pulling one of her cases from the back of his rugged all-wheel-drive truck, which he'd had parked at the airport. Her manicured fingernails, painted a soft bronze, looked incongruous doing manual labor. The vividly embroidered hem of her wide-legged cotton pants dragged in the dirt, the golden yellow turning brown as her heels sank through the soft earth.

He considered standing back and watching the show, but some idiotic male instinct refused to allow him to let her hurt herself. No matter what, she was his wife. And Marc Bordeaux looked after those who belonged to him.

Shoving a hand through his hair, he called out, "I'll do it, princess."

She ignored him and began lugging the case up the steps, using both hands. "I can carry this. It is small." As she walked, her midnight-and-gold hair moved around her face, looking soft and silky and touchable.

He'd never seen hair like hers, inky black except for the hidden strands of almost pure gold. Somehow he knew the colors were without artifice, her beauty hyp­notically real. The ends had curled in the humidity and he wanted to wrap those curls around his fingers and tug her to him. His body was suddenly heavy. Needy.

He'd never needed anyone.

"What's in it?" he asked, to distract himself. Hadn't Lydia taught him anything? Beautiful women were mirages—there was nothing beneath the glittering surface. Yet he'd married this lovely creature expecting her to be more. He still did.

He hadn't begun annulment proceedings because he couldn't bear to let her go without trying to plumb the depths of the woman behind the sophisticate—the woman he'd barely glimpsed that night when she'd thought herself alone. What he'd felt for her at that mo­ment had been brilliant, and so pure it had shocked him. He wasn't going to give up on that feeling until all hope was lost.

Her face turned pink as she stepped up to the veran­dah. "N-nothing. Just clothes."

Suddenly he knew she was lying. His anger was as cold as a chilling frost; Blocking her entry into the house, he stood as close as the suitcase allowed. "Don't lie to me. What—did your lover give you a going-away present?"

She blinked at him with those absurdly long lashes and if he hadn't known better, he'd have thought she was trying very hard not to cry. He fought the protective im­pulse that urged him to haul her into his arms.

"No. No lover gave me any presents. These are my books." Her gaze was mutinous, but he could see the faint tremor in her lush lower lip.

Her little dig about getting no presents from him hit the mark. He'd taken one look at her, at the secrets in her tawny mountain-cat eyes, and wanted her. Her fa­ther's scheming had only speeded up his plans. "Why the hell would you lie about books? What's really in there?"

She glared at him and dumped the case on the wooden planks of the verandah, then knelt down to unlock it. He waited. What did she hope to prove? After the final tumbler clicked into place, she threw him a re­bellious look and flung open the lid.

"Books," she said, smoothing the faded cover of one. "I tell you no lies." Her voice shook.

Confused by the vulnerability he could hear, he went down on his haunches beside her. "Why did you try to hide them from me?" He was almost jealous of the rev­erence with which her slender hands touched the cracked spines and dog-eared pages.

She closed the lid as if to conceal them once more and relocked the case. "My father didn't think that women should have much learning. He threw away my books when he could find them." She wouldn't look at him, shielding herself behind a waterfall of shimmering hair.

Well, hell, that was one answer he hadn't expected. Very carefully, with all the gentleness he had in him, he stroked her hair aside so he could see her face, his hand cupping her cheek. She flinched but didn't move away. "You don't have to hide your books from me."

He felt the shudder that shook her frame. Finally she raised her head, her gaze wary. "Is that true or are you. . .playing with me?"

The guarded look in those eyes was one he recog­nized. She expected to be kicked when she was down, to be humiliated and laughed at. That she should expect it of him was infuriating, but he understood that the lessons of a lifetime couldn't be forgotten in a day.

"I promise you it's true." In apology for the way he'd jumped on her, he told her something of himself. "I know the value of books. As a child, I read everything I could find. I'll never begrudge you knowledge." He removed his hand. "There's a library on the first floor. Use it whenever you want."

Pressing her lips tight, she gave a jerky nod. "Th-thank you. . .husband." It was the first time she'd ac­knowledged his claim over her, and there was no taunt or barb in her voice. Instead he heard a bone-deep vul­nerability that threatened all his beliefs about her.

Unsettled, he stood and offered her a hand. After the tiniest hesitation, slender feminine fingers slipped into his.

As she rose, his eyes dropped unintentionally to the skin bared above the modest neckline of her sleeveless top.

Sheened with sweat, her golden skin glowed. Heat flickered to life within him. No matter what his mind knew, his body couldn't understand why he was keep­ing his distance.

He forced his gaze to her face. It didn't do much good. It was as sensual as the rest of her. Full lips, sharp cheekbones, eyes a strange hypnotic shade of lightest brown that gave her a slightly feline look.

"You are so beautiful," he found himself saying, un­able to believe the reality of her.

She gave him a tight smile and tugged her hand away. "Yes. People always tell me that."

It should've sounded conceited. Instead, her tone held such sorrow that he stopped her from heading inside, putting his arm around her waist when she tried to walk past. The heat from her body passed through her cotton top and over him like a secret caress.

"And you don't like that?" He frowned.

She looked at him with those amazing eyes. "I am more than a face and a body. I am Hira. But no one wishes to know Hira. Please, I'm tired."

He released her. Stubbornly clutching her precious case, she moved past him in a wash of soft perfume and an indefinable scent that was uniquely her. As he re­trieved the other bags, he wondered if she placed him in the same category as those other people. And, if she did, was she right? He'd brushed aside her claims of in­terest in economics and thought she wouldn't know one end of a book from another. He'd been wrong on at least one count and that indicated he might be wrong on the other.

Or his beautiful, spoiled wife was playing games with him, trying to mess with his head.

Of all the possibilities, that seemed the most likely. First she freezes him out of their bed, then she comes across needy and scared on the plane, now he sees this ten­derhearted hurting creature. Who was the real Hira? Marc hadn't yet made up his mind. He hadn't reached where he had in life by making snap decisions. Then again, he'd asked for her hand before he'd spoken a word to her.

Perhaps, he accepted, there was some truth in her complaint. When he'd seen her on that balcony, had he wanted to know Hira? Had he fallen for the soul of that lovely woman who'd seen magic in the moonlight?

Or had he wanted to own that beautiful creature, wanted to show the world that the upstart Cajun with a patched-up body and face could own something so ex­quisite, most men would never even dream of it?

It.

His blood chilled. When had he become the kind of man who treated a person as a commodity? When had be become like the rich men he hated, the ones who collected beautiful young women as expendable accessories?

No, he thought. No. He wasn't like them. If he were, he wouldn't have experienced such disgust at his mo­mentarily aberrant thoughts. If he had nothing emotional invested in this marriage, the visceral pain he felt at the thought that he might have to dissolve it wouldn't exist.

Perhaps he could be accused of arrogance, but he'd been treated as a nonperson once. As a thing. He would never do that to another human being.

Not even to his ice queen of a wife.