Craving Beauty

Three

They'd just finished a largely silent take-out dinner later that evening, when he received a phone call from Nicole, a childhood friend.

"I'll be awhile," he told Hira. "Nic needs some ad­vice on a contract." Used to his help, Nicole had begged him to fly up to New York, but no way was he leaving his new bride to go to another woman's aid. That would be killing his marriage before it began, and the lost, lonely boy inside him continued to catch tantalizing glimpses of his dreams in Hira's eyes.

His wife had no way of knowing that Nicole was like a sister to him. From what she'd revealed of her parents' marriage, he'd bet she'd think he was going to his "other woman."

No curiosity enlivened her closed expression. "As you wish." Despite his attempts during dinner, she'd refused to soften in any way. It was almost as if she were willing him to forget the woman he'd glimpsed in that instant's vulnerability on the verandah.

"You've probably seen Nic on the ads for Xanadu Cosmetics." React, damn it, he wanted to say. Show me you care about this marriage. . .about your husband.

"She is lovely."

Cold as ice, Marc thought once again, furious at himself for hoping for something more. "Perhaps I should've just married Nic instead," he muttered under his breath as he left the room, not intending his new wife to hear the wholly facetious comment.

Hira felt his words impact like sharp stones against her heart, wounding and so incredibly hurtful that she couldn't breathe. She sat there, unable to move for what seemed like forever. Marc had stalked into the spacious living area abutting the kitchen but had left the door open. Though she couldn't distinguish the words, she could hear the deep rumble of his voice.

And occasionally she could hear a low male chuckle.

Clenching her hands on the arms of the chair, she made herself take deep, calming breaths. The feeling of betrayal persisted. She didn't know why, but she hadn't expected that kind of cruelty from the man she'd married. He'd been so gentle, so tender with her feel­ings on the plane that he'd fooled her completely. And on the verandah. . .his rough understanding had been her undoing.

So quickly, so suddenly, he'd threatened to win her trust. Terrified of his power over her, she'd retreated be­hind the only protection she had—an icy facade that was as brittle as summer frost. The whole time that they'd sat across from each other at this table, she'd ached to place her faith in him, but the part of her that had grown up watching her father ambush, then degrade her mother's pride, had cautioned her to wait before she made an awful mistake. And that bruised part of her had been right. If Marc could cause her such torment now, how much worse would it have been if she'd taken those first halting steps?

Feeling lost and alone, she finally stood, searching for something to occupy her mind and her stupidly trem­bling hands. How had it happened that she'd become so vulnerable to this man she'd married, when she'd learned to protect herself from cruelty after growing up under Kerim's rule?

She couldn't bear to go up to hep lonely room and shut herself in. She'd been shut in most of her life. No more, she decided. Her eye fell on their dinner dishes. Glad to have something concrete to do, she gathered them up and took them to the sink. Cool air whispered between her legs from the sway of the ankle-length skirt she'd changed into. Teamed with a white cotton blouse that had an elasticized neckline and little puff sleeves, it made her feel free. She vowed no one would steal that feeling from her.

Midway through the chore, her husband returned, apparently finished with his "Nic."

Perhaps I should’ve just married Nic instead.

The painful words rocked through her again. She wanted to throw something and ask him why he hadn't married his precious Nic! Why had he brought her out of the desert if he didn't want her? But she didn't speak, too used to having defiance punished by harsh measures.

The punishments hadn't destroyed her fire, but they'd taught her to be very careful as to whom she trusted with her thoughts and emotions. Sometimes those closest to you promised the least safety.

Marc was taken aback to see his princess of a wife efficiently doing the dishes. When she placed the washed dishes in the drainer, he grabbed a dish towel and started to wipe them, wondering once again if he'd been too hasty. For some reason, Hira made him react with quick-fire temper, when he had a reputation for steely control under pressure.

She sent him a startled glance out of those slanted eyes. "You do women's work?"

He grinned. "Cher, I used to be a dishwasher in a res­taurant when I was a sprat."

That gave her something to think about, because she didn't speak until the work was complete. Despite the disaster the evening had been so far, he'd hoped that they might have coffee together, but she started to head up­stairs to her bedroom.

"Hey." He grabbed her arm, careful of his strength on her fragile flesh. "We have to talk." He didn't know what he was going to say. He just knew that something had to be said. They couldn't keep living like this—two strangers who'd said some vows and now found them­selves locked in the same cell together.

"Why? Do you wish me to come to your bed?" Arc­tic frost coated the question. Standing a couple of steps above him, she looked down on him as if he was a lowly slave, her expression as cold as a desert dawn.

He dropped her arm with a sound of disgust, all his newfound warmth lost in the chill emanating from her. "Damn it, I don't do unwilling women."

"Then you will never 'do' your wife." Her fists were clenched by her sides, her lips pursed tight. It was the first hint of emotion she'd revealed since those mo­ments on the verandah.

He was too furious to decipher the message blaz­ing in her suddenly dark gaze. "What, my hands too dirty for you, princess? Did you realize that my money isn't enough to make you forget my roots?" His voice was harsh. What the hell was he doing? He was a man hunted by many women, but for some rea­son he wanted this one who held him in contempt. Only this one.

She frowned at his hands, as if not understanding the metaphor. "I don't know anything of that. I only know that you have shown your disregard for me by saying you should've married this Nic. I don't wish to remain here with a man who finds it so easy to hurt me."

The bluntness of her words rocked him out of his anger, while the shadowy fear she quickly hid made his next words tender. "Aw, hell. I'm sorry." He raised his hand again and with a gentle grasp on her left hand, tugged her down a step, wondering at,the cause of that flash of sheer panic. What scars was Beauty hiding?

"I didn't mean for you to hear that." God, he was an idiot. No wonder her back had gone rigid the instant he'd returned to the kitchen. "It was just my temper talk­ing, baby. Nic's like my kid sister."

"You give me an apology?" Astonishment rang in every syllable.

Her hand in his was a warm token of trust he hadn't expected. "I acted badly. You have my humblest apolo­gies, princess."

"I. . . That is all right." She was looking at him as if she couldn't understand him, her eyes tawny with sur­prised warmth, no hint of ice in sight. This was the woman who'd smiled at him shyly across a crowded room, lovely and vibrant and everything he'd ever wanted.

"What's wrong, cher?" The endearment slipped out—her perplexed expression was so very innocent.

Not fighting him when he used his free hand to move a strand of hair off her face, she said, "My father never apologized. He said it was not the husband's role to take blame." Her eyes met his, at once confused and daring.

Marc raised a brow. "What if he was wrong?" He shoved his free hand deep into his pocket to keep from reaching out and stroking the curve of her cheek, from luxuriating in the feel of that golden skin stained with softest pink. There was too much wariness in her gaze to chance the intimacy.

"He said he was never wrong."

"One heck of a way to win an argument." Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he rubbed the back of his neck instead of her cheek. Takes the fun out of fighting, doesn't it?"

"Why would an argument be fun?" She frowned.

He couldn't help the smile that curved his lips. Lean­ing close, he deliberately crowded her with his body, the devil in him winning over. "Because then you get to make up, princess." His breath sent the tiny tendrils at her temples dancing. His lips were a whisper from hers, his senses awash in the sensual woman scent of her. Giving in to temptation, he raised his free hand to cup her face, wondering at being able to touch someone so soft and delicate.

Eyes wide, she jerked her hand from his and turned to run up the stairs so fast he had no time to react. His smiled faded with each step she took. What had he ex­pected? That his scarred face would entice her into his arms? Though he refused to admit it, her rejection hurt in a soul-deep way that left him no room to hide. As an­other one of his dreams crumbled to ashes, he followed his beauty far more slowly up the stairs.

Always a loner, tonight he found his bed cold.

Hira lay awake late into the night. It was her hus­band's fault. He'd done something to her. Every time she thought she might fall asleep, ghost-gray eyes prodded her awake, asking her for something she had no knowl­edge of.

She knew he desired her. Most men desired her. It wasn't something she was proud of. It hurt to know that they wanted her only for her body and face. Not one of them would be able to tell her anything of her true self. Had she married just such a man?

He saw her as a "princess," a woman who had no re­deeming qualities or many brains. But he wished to lie with her. It wasn't flattering to her to be compared to those American bimbos she saw with their rich, old hus­bands.

Sniffling, though she wanted to be haughty and unaffected, she gave up trying to sleep and rose.

After snuggling into a sunny yellow robe adorned with a single red rose on the back, she sneaked down­stairs with the intention of making hot chocolate. In the foreign books she'd read, it had been called "comfort food," and comforting was just what she needed.

She felt alone, adrift. It was as if her mind and body were disconnected. The smart part of her knew that if she allowed herself to feel tenderness for Marc, the hunter in him would seek total surrender. Her first im­pression of him had been of danger. Every time he came near her, every time he threatened to tear down the walls that had protected her from hurt all her life, that impres­sion was cemented. Yet the sensuous heart of her nature found his masculinity hypnotically compelling. What was she supposed to do with these strange feelings?

And why hadn't her husband come to her tonight? She'd been terrified that he would, unaware how to cope with the sudden heat flooding her body, but she'd ac­cepted the inevitability. She was his wife. He'd left her alone last night because she'd shown him anger, but to­night he'd wanted her and he had to have guessed that she wouldn't deny him again. Not when she'd reacted to his touch as if she'd been struck by lightning. Yet he hadn't come.

He confused her, her big husband who moved like a desert hunter with his lean body and watchful gaze, and who smiled at her as if they shared some secret.

Marc heard Hira leave her room. He wondered what she was doing wandering around the house at this time of night. His heavily aroused body was keeping him awake, but she had no such excuse. From the way she'd run, the woman had no more desire for him than she had for a rabid gator. Grunting, he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and started downstairs. To hell with caring for her sensibilities. If she couldn't handle the scars that marked his body, they might as well find that out fight now.

He'd never had trouble drawing women, but they'd been tough women, women who prowled for men and knew exactly what they wanted when they got him. And it wasn't tenderness. Gentle, pretty women like his wife tended to find his patched-up body and face distasteful. If he knew that, why was he putting himself through this? he asked himself bleakly.

Shaking his head, he walked downstairs. When he entered the kitchen, Hira was pulling down the tin of hot chocolate from a high cupboard. Her hair fell thick and straight over her shoulders like a black-and-gold mir­ror, shimmering against the vibrant yellow of her thin robe. Lord, but she was beautiful. If only if he could fig­ure out whether that beauty was also of the heart, he might yet survive this marriage.

"Hungry?" he asked, walking into the room.

Startled eyes in that strange shade of lightest brown met his. She blinked as if to ensure he was real. "I couldn't sleep." It was a grudging admission.

He deliberately crossed his arms across his chest, wanting her to look at him, really look at him. Despite her sophistication, even she wouldn't be able to hide an instinctive reaction. "Neither could I."

Her eyes refused to budge from his face. "Do you want some?" She put down the tin and opened the fridge door. "There is no milk!" Clearly frustrated, she glared at him over one shoulder.

He grimaced. "We'll get some more groceries to­morrow."

She closed the door and put the tin away, scowling at him. "But I don't have what I wish now."

"A little delayed gratification never hurt anyone." Now, if only his body would understand that, they'd both be far more comfortable.

Pursing her lush lips, she started to walk past him, nose in the air, hips swinging in a way that was utterly natural and sublimely female. The same devil that had got him in trouble before made him reach out and grab her upper arm, warm through the cool material of her robe.

Those almond-shaped eyes, mysterious and layered with secrets, clashed with his. "Let me go."

"Why?" he asked, encouraged by the slight blush in her cheeks, the fire in her eyes.

"Because I don't wish to do this and you said you wouldn't use force."

Was that fear in those magnificent eyes? No, he thought, gentling his voice nonetheless. "But what about persuasion?" His breath whispered over her lips, his tone husky. He made no effort to hide his honest desire for her. The sexual awareness between them couldn't be one-sided, not when every breath he took burned with passion.

She reared back. "You wouldn't be able to persuade me to do something distasteful to me." Her words were like swords, stabbing into him, adding to the scars on the inside, scars so bad that it was better they lived in darkness.

"If you try despite knowing that, it will make you no more than an animal in heat."

Hurt more than he would've believed by that verbal shot, Marc dropped her arm and turned his back to her. At least now he knew that this hasty marriage had no hope of ever surviving. Then why couldn't he reconcile himself to walking away? "Good night, princess."

Hira stood there staring at Marc's rigid back, aware that she'd hurt him. She had never intentionally hurt an­other human being in her life. Conscience told her to apologize; the part of her that he'd been taunting was smug, but the biggest feeling was confusion. For there was nothing distasteful to her about her husband. De­spite trying to keep him at a distance, she'd allowed him close. Romaz had never made her feel this chaos of mingled joy and terror. And she'd thought she'd loved him.

Overwhelmed and unable to understand what was happening to her, she whirled on her heel and escaped to her room. Inside, she paced across the small space over and over, shocked at the heat that had flooded her body at her husband's proximity. Her mother hadn't told her of these things. All she'd said was that if her hus­band was a gentle man, he would be careful of her fears.

Hira herself had learned long ago how things were in the marriage bed. However, she had no practical ex­perience. Even with Romaz, she'd behaved with the ut­most decorum. It had been easy to resist his attempts at seduction.

Too easy.

Her mind and heart urged her to accept the truth she'd been avoiding since the moment she'd met Marc—she hadn't been in love with Romaz, had instead been at­tracted to the dream of freedom he'd held out. If she'd loved him, it wouldn't have been so very easy to keep him at arm's length. If she'd loved him, she would've burned for him as she did for Marc, this husband she barely knew.

Faced with a man a hundred times more masculine than her only other would-be lover, a man who she be­lieved would be demanding and impatient with her in­experience, she was lost. Brought up in a cloistered environment, she'd never been allowed to mingle with males such as her husband. Though her family had tried to make a match for her with the sheik, they'd never al­lowed her to be alone with him.

But tonight she was all alone with a man who wished to exercise his rights as a husband but didn't believe in forcing his bride. That meant that if she wanted to make this marriage more than words on paper, more than two strangers sharing a house, she would have to get over her cowardice and approach him, for she knew he wouldn't come near her again. He had too much pride, pride that she'd slashed at tonight with her panicked re­sponse.

He'd been so close, so overwhelmingly male, so po­tent that her entire body had seemed to go up in flames. She'd been almost dizzy with the sudden, shocking desire to place her hands on that magnificent chest and stroke until his control snapped, though she had no idea what she would've done with an uncon­trollable male on her hands.

Even more scandalous was the way she'd ached to rub herself against that steel-hard body.

She'd just wanted like she'd never wanted.

And her own desire had so frightened her that she'd struck out at the cause of her unease, wounding him when he'd done nothing to deserve it, when he'd apol­ogized for hurting her with his earlier burst of temper. He'd been so sincere that she knew he'd told her the truth.

It had been easy to forgive him, for she didn't mind living with a man who had a flash-fire temper. In fact, she preferred it to her father's coldly judging silence. But tonight Marc hadn't shown her temper but such emotionless rigidity that she knew she'd caused serious damage.

With her actions she'd shattered the already fragile support base of their marriage. Now she was the one who'd have to rebuild it. Scared, not knowing how a woman went about seducing a male as strong as her new husband, she curled up in bed, thinking she'd never get to sleep.

She dreamed of silken sheets and a hunter of a male with eyes of liquid mercury. A demanding, hungry and powerful lover who refused to let her keep any part of herself back from him. A man who gave as much as he took and left her drenched in sweat, her body aching for a possession she had no knowledge of.