Craving Beauty

Five

Hira wasn't sure she was functioning properly. Mov­ing her head with care lest it fall off, she looked beside her to the hunter sharing the bed. Yes, she'd once thought him a civilized man, but that had been a com­plete delusion. He was about as civilized as a mountain lion. His taking of her—and it had been a taking in the most basic sense—had been domineering, controlling and very, very sexual.

This very uncivilized man thought he owned her even relaxed hi sleep. She was pinned down with the heavy arm thrown across her waist and a muscular thigh across her lower legs; now that she'd given her­self to him, he wouldn't allow her to back away from their sexual joining.

But was it making love?

No, she thought with a little pang of loss. It hadn't been making love. He desired her but he didn't love her. And as for her? She didn't know what to make of her own emotions. She'd been so sure she'd loved Romaz, and yet she'd never felt this desire to mate with him that she did for her American husband.

From the first moment she'd seen Marc, her feelings had spun as wildly out of control as a desert storm. Turning, she raised one hand and brushed his dark hair off his face, unable to stop the tender caress of her fin­gertips across his strong jaw.

He fascinated her, this hunter with his scars and his eyes full of shadows. She'd never seen a more magnif­icent man, and she came from a culture far more prim­itive in its beliefs about men and women than her new home.

Zulheil's history had made its men toughened, somewhat wild creatures who had to be coaxed to trust a gentle feminine hand.

Had she misjudged her husband and dealt with him in the worst possible way? If he were like the men of her homeland, then he would have to be treated with the same wary tenderness, for wild creatures didn't trust so easily as their civilized brethren. She'd thought him an American millionaire but that was merely a mask. He was far more like Zulheil's desert chieftains, who some­times took women for the simple reason that they wanted them.

Eyes the shade of aged silver were suddenly look­ing into hers. "How long have you been awake?" he demanded.

"Hours and hours," she lied. Like those chieftains, he must never be given all he wanted, or he'd become a total dictator.

His lips curved in that slow sexy smile that never failed to weaken her virtue, and he rolled over to lie on top of her, his arousal nudging at her. Shocked, she felt her eyes widen. "Already?"

"The first two times were mere entrees, baby. I'm working toward the main course." He pushed into her.

Gently. Oh, so gently.

Surprised by the tenderness she could feel in the care he took with her well-loved body, she was undone. To her further shock, she accepted him easily, without pain or discomfort, feeling only sweet, hot hunger. He was slow this time around, moving with languorous ease that gave her much pleasure. As passion built, she rode the tide with him, clutching the sheets and letting him kiss and suck her breasts as he would, giving herself to her hunter.

Marc watched Hira move sinuously beneath him and could barely believe she'd been a virgin only hours be­fore. He'd been merciless, not letting her recover from that first joining before taking her again, stroking her to incoherent passion as morning turned to afternoon, his appetite for her and her pleasure out of control. But she'd been with him every step, a sensual, gorgeous creature whose body reacted to his touch like dynamite to fire. He'd never had his hands full of fire before. It was an education.

Though he would never tell her, she'd spoiled him for other women. They damn well were going to stay mar­ried forever because he had no intention of going with­out, now that he knew what was possible. In bed she was his perfect mate, honest and giving with just a whisper of wildness. He wanted to coax more of that wildness from her, in the bedroom and out.

Her breath hissed out from between her lips as he touched her deep in her heat, his engorged flesh stretch­ing her swollen tissues. Slowing the tempo of his hips, he stroked and kissed and caressed, giving her the ten­derness he'd denied her earlier. "Was I too rough, cher?"

Exotic eyes of lightest brown met his. "Did I com­plain?"

He grinned. "You said I made you crazy."

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands. Obligingly he moved close enough for her to kiss him. "Yes. I am insane and that is your punishment."

Chuckling, he inserted a hand between their bodies and caressed her where she was most sensitive. She moved against him, surprising him with her acceptance of the intimacy. To his delight her curious honesty ap­parently translated into open sensuality in bed. He gave her what she wanted and she returned the favor, lock­ing her long legs around his hips and holding him to her.

Watching her eyes go almost golden as she reached her climax, Marc wondered why this day felt more momen­tous than their wedding ceremony.

After that incredibly pleasurable day with her husband, Hira decided to truly fight for their marriage. She had taken vows. Though they hadn't been made with full freedom of choice, they had been made. She had many faults, but she wasn't a promise breaker.

Her husband didn't love her, she thought as she walked along a stream that ran near the house. But nei­ther did he treat her with the lack of courtesy that her fa­ther always showed her mother. It wasn't much, but it was better than the life she'd expected on her wedding night.

For the past three weeks, ever since she'd admitted her desire for him, he'd been warm and indulgent. Whenever he could delegate work, he'd been teaching her about his Louisiana. Wide-eyed, she'd visited a voo­doo practitioner's temple, gorged herself at a backwoods crawfish restaurant and ridden through the gator-infested bayou country that Marc loved so much.

It was a lush land, full of surprises and hidden glory that easily enchanted. Attempting to appreciate this vivid, green country was not the hardest thing in her life. Especially when she saw it through her husband's eyes.

But there was one thing that gave her pause. Every Wednesday night and Sunday afternoon, Marc disap­peared.

When she'd asked, he'd said that it had to do with some important business. But while he'd been out last week, his secretary had called looking for him, un­able to get through to his mobile phone.

Hira had given the woman a plausible excuse, but she couldn't help wondering where her husband went when he left her each sunny Sunday, and what he did that made him arrive home so very late every Wednesday.

Though it was a painful thing, she accepted that de­spite the risk she'd taken in giving herself to him, he might have another lover. Romaz hadn't been satisfied with her—why should she be enough for this far more magnificent man? Clenching her fists, she took a deep breath of the wet air. Everything in this land was wet. Even her eyes.

Rubbing her tears off her face with the backs of her hands, she decided that she wouldn't suffer in silence. She wasn't going to spend the rest of her life ignoring her husband's infidelities the way her mother did. Perhaps it had allowed Amira Dazirah to live with some semblance of happiness, but it would never suit her daughter.

Walking out of the woods surrounding their exten­sive compound, she strode to the house and made her way to the master bedroom. The sound of the shower in the en suite bathroom only gave her a little peace. She knew she shouldn't spy on her husband's affairs but she couldn't bear to simply ask him, couldn't bear to tear open her soul that way. If he told her face-to-face that he had a lover, she wouldn't be able to hide her pain.

She felt ashamed spying, but she would rather feel that than the crushing humiliation that would surely come if she went into a confrontation with no knowl­edge whatsoever. She needed some shield against Marc, some way to protect herself. As he'd shown her last night, when his hands touched her body, she became his in a way that defied her own mind and soul.

Ears perked to catch the slightest sound, she reached into Marc's jacket pockets and pulled out everything in them. The wallet and keys went straight back in. She started going through the handful of receipts in one pocket. No matter that this was wrong, she had to know, for the idea of her husband finding succor in some other woman's arms was unbearable.

"Gas," she muttered, scanning the receipts. "Grocer­ies. Clothing...from a boys store? Electronic equip­ment. Flowers." That was all there was. Brow furrowed, she put the receipts away just as the shower shut off.

Giving a soft gasp, she whirled out of the master bedroom and padded quickly into her own. Though she hadn't spent a night there since she'd lain with Marc, it was still her room, full of feminine things and her favorite books, a place of retreat when her hunter of a husband became too dominating or overwhelming. However, she'd rarely been pushed to use it in the past weeks.

She'd found herself drifting into the relaxed living room to sit with Marc, without ever consciously plan­ning such a domestic scene. He never asked her to be with him, but if she was away from him for more than an hour, he came looking. Until now she'd thought that implied growing care for her, and her heart had bloomed. But what if it had been nothing more than a proprietary search for the woman he considered his property?

The instant Marc walked out of the bathroom, he knew that someone had been in the bedroom. Barely a second later he knew it had been his wife. Her elusive scent tantalized his nostrils and threatened to arouse him when he had no intention of being made a slave to desire.

As he dressed, he thought over her distant behavior of the past week. He'd wondered if she was trying out her fledgling sensual wings, seeing if she could control him by withholding her full self from their intimacy. If she was, he'd shown her last night that she was a novice in that game.

He frowned. Had he been too demanding of her? He hadn't let her hold back an inch, asking more and more and still more, not letting her sleep until she'd begged him for rest. Even then a part of him had raged to keep taking her, stamping his mark on her, forcing her to remove the distance he'd glimpsed on her face even in the darkness.

He swore under his breath. Despite her sensual na­ture, she really was an innocent in that particular arena. His gut twisted at the thought that he might've scared her with his intensity, even though she'd ridden every wave with him.

Hira sat in her room, unable to stop thinking about what she'd found. The groceries, clothing and computer equipment hadn't come to this house. Neither had the flowers, and that hurt most of all. Her husband had never given her flowers, never so much as a tiny trinket to show her that he felt some affection for her. That wasn't to say he was a stingy husband. No, in some ways he was far too generous.

A racy little sports car had been delivered for her per­sonal use a few days after her arrival in America, and just last week, his secretary had accompanied her on a shopping trip to a number of designer boutiques where Marc had set up accounts for her use. But despite his generosity, he'd never once given her anything that might be interpreted as the least bit romantic. Perhaps he didn't wish her to get the idea that she meant more to him than a pleasurable face and body.

So where had the flowers gone?

Who had they gone to?

Her heart felt as if it was slowly breaking into a thou­sand little pieces. Could it be that her husband had be­come more than just a lover? Could it be that she was the trophy to show off, while his heart belonged to a woman he couldn't marry for some reason?

It wasn't such a ridiculous idea. Her father's longest-serving mistress was a twice-divorced Parisian dancer whom he'd known since before his marriage. She'd once heard him say to her brother, Fariz, that though he couldn't let the woman go, he'd never considered mar­rying her—a man of his standing needed a wife with a pristine past.

Pain beat at her temples as, for the first time, she re­alized that this hunter of an American with his quick mind and compelling eyes meant far more to her than a convenient husband. In her heart she'd claimed him as hers the first time he'd teased her with that slow smile. And that had been back in Zulheil.

She didn't know if she loved him, but she did know she felt things for him she'd never felt for any other man. He was her husband and she wouldn't sit aside and let him betray her. She wasn't a toy he could play with, as he'd played with her last night, and then put back in her box when she became inconvenient.

Gulping, she considered confronting him right then and there. Only a second later she thrust that idea aside. He was half-naked right now and would surely see her entry as an invitation to seduction. No, she couldn't let him touch her body while he thought of another woman.

The past few days had been torture, last night had been pure humiliation, given that she'd been trying to keep her distance while she decided whether or not he was cheating on her. With hands that caressed and teased, lips that lavished attention on every secret cor­ner and husky whispers that rasped along her skin, he'd made her give up all her precious dignity and taken his pleasure in her shuddering climaxes.

She could accept his lack of loving, but it was un­bearable that he might be giving some other woman the very affection he couldn't find in his soul for her. She had to know the truth. But how?

"Hira." Marc's deep voice came through the door.

"Yes?" Startled, she stood and walked over to stand on her side of the wooden barrier, hoping he wouldn' t ask her to open it. Today he'd have no trouble seeing past the ice princess to the very human woman underneath, and she couldn't bear that, not when he might be in love with an­other woman—someone whom he adored far more than her beautiful face and sexually enticing body. Marc might pity his jealous wife, and that would be the greatest cru­elty. Alone in this new land, her pride was all she had.

"Get dressed, cher. We'll go grab dinner—I'll intro­duce you to the best jambalaya in town."

Her husband's voice held infinite gentleness. After the way he'd tamed her last night, he probably felt as if he could be gentle, for what weapons did a woman so capably taken have?

"I do not wish to." Even to herself she sounded as welcoming as winter frost. It was the only way she knew to protect herself, the only way she'd ever been able to bear her father's treatment of her mother and dis­missal of her own dreams.

Silence from the other side. Then a short, "Suit your­self. Don't wait up," he added sardonically.

Ten minutes later when she heard him drive away, she suddenly realized how she could find out the truth. Her husband was always out on a Wednesday and Sun­day. Tomorrow was Wednesday and to her knowledge Marc wasn't planning on going into his city office.

At around four the next afternoon, Hira sat behind the steering wheel of the sleek sports car Marc had given her, wishing it were any color but cherry red. She'd told her husband she was going for a drive, but instead she was hiding behind a curve in the road, her ears strain­ing for the sound of his truck. It was shameful but she was going to follow her husband.

Perhaps if he'd come to her upon returning home, she might have broken down and confronted him. But when he'd come through the front door late last night, he'd stalked into the master suite without pausing. She'd thought that despite his dictate that she share his bed, he hadn't cared enough to search her out.

Inexplicably hurt, she'd lain awake for hours, miss­ing him and thinking about the other woman who was keeping him satisfied. But if she were to be honest, her pain had been filled with a great amount of anger. It was that anger that had given her the courage to do what she was about to undertake.

Anger and frustration, for her stubborn husband had come to her last night, deep in the darkest hours when her defenses had all been down. He'd aroused her body, had her whimpering even before she'd fully wakened. Then he'd taken her, storming her senses with fierce purpose.

There hadn't been anger in his touch, but something far more dangerous—a possessive surety that indicated he viewed her as belonging to him, a situation he'd never allow to change. He'd driven her to erotic ecstasy and then he'd started over, giving her another look at the wild male underneath the civilized man. As far as that hunter was concerned, she was his. Full stop. End of story.

By the time he'd finished with her, she'd been so ex­hausted with pleasure she hadn't been able to speak. She'd barely registered the fact that he'd carried her to the master suite, hauling her possessively close to his side. This morning he'd wakened her with that same in­tense hunger, watching her go over the edge, allowing her to hold nothing back.

Though she'd felt the raging desire in him, his steely control hadn't broken. That control had hurt her already bruised heart—she'd thought them equal in their desire for each other. Yet he'd given her no chance to seduce him, controlling their sensual dance till the end.

A throaty rumble sounded. Mouth suddenly as dry as dust, she started her own engine and crept around the corner. Marc was just turning right. Swallowing, she fol­lowed. As the immediate area around their property was trafficless, she had to hang back until his car cleared each tree-lined curve. After more than ten nerve-rack­ing minutes, they entered a comparatively busier area, but given her distinctive car she knew she couldn't chance getting closer.

Strung taut with nervous tension, she lost track of time as they drove out of their isolated patch of bayou country and north toward Lafayette. For a while they hugged the Vermillion River, but soon even that land­mark disappeared, leaving her solely reliant on follow­ing Marc.

Relief came as they headed into Lafayette proper. Marc remained on the outskirts of the city, near a large park, but the streets were busy enough to allow her a chance to relax from the constant fear of being spotted. It helped that not a single road in this place seemed to go in a straight line.

The last five minutes of the journey were the most difficult. Because the streets were quiet and.contained many turnoffs, she had to stick closer than she liked or lose her line of sight. But at last he turned into the drive of a large house.

She parked her car a few doors down, behind a black van, her eyes drawn to the house. Children's toys lay here and there in the yard, and a swing set was just visible on the other side. Her hands squeezed the steering wheel and she almost forgot to breathe as it hit her that he might have children. In her pain over the flowers, she'd forgotten the receipt for clothing from a boys store.

When she finally dared to walk down the street to look at the faded sign near the gate, she was startled to see the words Our Lady of Hope Orphanage for Boys.

An orphanage ?

Mind in turmoil, she returned to the car. It appeared that her aloof husband wasn't meeting another woman, but what was his connection with an orphanage? And why had he kept it secret from her? Turning the key, she went to start the car. A big male hand reached inside and jerked it out.

Crying out, she whirled around and looked into the furious face of her husband. "Marc!"

"Get out!" He pulled open the door.

She obeyed, shaken by the visible rage on his face. Once she was standing in front of him, she didn't speak, waiting for his words. And his punishment. From what she knew of men she didn't believe he'd let her go this time without trying to humiliate her pride.

"You think I didn't see you following me?" he de­manded, eyes glittering. "What kind of game are you playing?"

"I thought you were meeting another woman," she admitted, her throat dry. She'd never seen him mis openly furious, this out of control.

He seemed to get even angrier. "You want to see what I'm doing? Then come with me. Let's see what happens when you're faced with something that's not so pretty and pampered like the rest of your life, princess."

She didn't point out that she was only pampered be­cause he wanted it that way. He'd been the one to set up accounts for her at the most exclusive boutiques, the most expensive stylists, as if she were an accessory that needed to be polished, she thought with a stabbing pain inside her stomach. Well, she'd always known where her worth lay. And she'd walked into this relationship with her eyes wide open. It did no good to rail at fate.

Now instead of arguing she went with him, the full skirt of her sunny-yellow dress whispering around her ankles. He tugged her up the stairs of the orphanage and pulled her inside the run-down building. An old man looked up from a desk in a room just off the entrance... A room that held a huge vase of wildflowers.

"Father Thomas." Marc's tone conveyed the deepest respect. "This is my wife, Hira."

The man smiled and stood. "My dear, it's lovely to finally meet you." Father Thomas walked over to the doorway and held out his hands.

Though Zulheil's ways were ancient and unlike those of her new home, there was such wisdom and peace in this man's faded-blue eyes, Hira knew he was close to divine grace. Awed, she went to him and bent down so he could kiss her cheeks. The hands that held her own were wrapped in papery-thin skin, but as strong as a young man's.

"I am honored, elder." She gave him the honorific of her land, wishing she wasn't wearing a sundress. In Zulheil, respect would demand formal clothing for such a meeting. Some of the old ways were worth following.

He chuckled. "You are a lovely young woman. A gentle soul."

The compliment brought tears to her eyes, for despite his ability to pinpoint their location, she could see that he was almost blind. This man saw Hira, not just the face and the body that were her trappings.

"You've done well, my son. I suppose you want to show her off to the boys. Off you go, daughter. I expect to see a lot more of you."

Hira smiled, feeling more warmth from this frail old man than she ever had from her own father. "You will." She turned and let Marc lead her away, leaving the elder to his ruminations.

The second they were out of earshot, he said in a cut­ting whisper, "Good performance, babe, but the boys won't be fooled so easily." Suddenly he paused. "Damn it, what the hell was I thinking? I shouldn't have brought you here—they've suffered enough." The bitterness in his tone startled her. "It's too late now. Don't hurt them."

Before she could ask him to explain the deep and un­compromising care she heard in his tone, they walked into a large kitchen. Ten boys of different ages, from a skinny five-year-old to a gangly youth of about fourteen, appeared to be trying to cook. Flour had turned the floor white but it was the childish laughter and the joy on their faces that held her attention. Then they saw her.

And the laughter died.