Craving Beauty

Seven

His wife turned on her heel and stumbled. Reaching out, he grabbed the backs of her arms, stunned to find fine tremors shaking her entire body.

"Let me go. Let me go," she repeated softly. "Just... let me go." Her voice hitched as she lost the battle with her tears.

Deep inside, where nothing was supposed to reach, a lost part of him found its way to the light. "Don't cry, Hira. Please, don't cry." He pulled her trembling body back against his chest, his chin on her hair, his arms around her waist. "I'm sorry. Hush, cher, Hush." Emotion brought the boy who'd roamed the bayou back to the surface.

She sniffed, keeping her back to his chest. "What do you always call me? Is it a bad word?"

He found himself smiling. "No. It's an endearment."

One that he found himself saying more and more, when he'd never been a man who threw the word around, charming women and breaking hearts.

"Why are you being nice?"

The question rocked him. "Am I not nice to you?"

"No." Bluntness again. "You treat me like... What is the word that Damian used yesterday to Larry?" She raised her hands and he could tell she was furiously wip­ing her eyes. "Yes, you treat me as if I am a nitwit." She sounded very proud at remembering that derogatory term.

"You send me shopping so I'll be out of your way while you do real work, and you get your secretary to make me appointments at these beauty salons where I'm so bored I complete all the crossword puzzles in every one of their silly magazines."

He winced because she was right. He'd asked his sec­retary to arrange outings, for her so that he could work in peace and quiet at home. The strange thing was, he'd found himself missing her. When she was home, he tended to go searching for her. That realization made him take a hard look at his actions. Was that why he'd sent her out? So he could pretend he wasn't falling for her?

"You have my most humble apologies if you think I treated you like a nitwit." He turned her in his arms and she came, though the face that looked up at him was de­fiant. "I don't think that of you."

She narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps."

There would be no easy acceptance of his apology from this woman. Marc found he didn't mind. He didn't want a wife who hid her emotions the way Hira's mother did to placate her husband. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

He knew that if he didn't fix things now, his wife would sublimate her pain and anger just like Amira, and he'd lose a piece of her. Tomorrow she'd be gracious and forgiving, and all the while she'd be living her own life in her thoughts and dreams, a life that he'd never again be invited to share. He didn't want that. He wanted all of her—spirit and soul, passion and heart.

"Nothing." She squared her shoulders. "I need noth­ing from you, husband."

His temper ignited, overwhelming the remorse. He was suddenly furiously angry at the way she refused to give him any rights over her, as if he weren't good enough. As if he should beg for her attention. She was treating him like another beautiful woman had a lifetime ago, and he'd had enough, more than enough.

"Except my money, you mean," he taunted. "If I wasn't keeping you in the style to which you're accus­tomed, you'd be out on the street."

This time there were no tears. Hira's face paled under that golden skin and then she whispered, "And you say you are nice to me? I'm alone and without family in this land. You know I have no one and so you can say these things."

His gut roiled, the burst of anger buried under an av­alanche of self-hatred. "Hira..."

She kept talking. "I thought, maybe, you were a good man but you are just like my father."

He bristled. "I'm nothing like that tyrant."

"My mother always had to beg him for money." She damned him with those exotic eyes. "Oh, she was given expensive clothes and jewels. Father made sure they were delivered to her like clockwork. We had to keep up the—what is the word—yes, image.... We had to keep up the image of the rich merchant."

Marc just stood there, letting her talk in that soft voice that was so unlike the vivid woman he'd come to know, feeling more and more despicable with every word she spoke. Until he'd married, he hadn't known he had such a volatile temper. No one else had ever made him angry enough to be cruel.

"But she had to ask him for every cent if she ever needed spending money or money to buy her children gifts, or even to go out to have lunch with a friend. Be­cause of their uniqueness, she couldn't sell the jewels without destroying the reputation of the family, so she was dependant on him." Her eyes were distant and pain filled, as if she were reliving the humiliation her mother had gone through day after day.

"He'd sit in his study chair like a pasha and have her stand there like a supplicant, with no rights. He'd make her beg for money as if it was not her entitlement as his wife, who worked so hard to make his life agreeable. As if she hadn't borne him three children, even though she was a fragile woman whom the doctors had advised to stop with only one." Sadness filled every word, rip­ping at his heart. "And yet he made her beg. Even the lowliest servant was ensured of his weekly wages but not my mother of her income." Her chest was heaving, the only sign of the anger she'd subsumed so well.

"Okay," he said. He'd never been a man who ran from the harsh reality of his own flaws.

"I don't understand." Her eyes remained wary, the haunted shade of a wild creature who'd been captured and was waiting for the pain to begin.

Guilt twisted like a knife inside of him. "I agree that I was a complete and utter jerk. There's no excuse for what I just said."

She seemed taken aback, "Why do you say this?"

He blew out a breath. "I wish to hell I didn't have a temper but I do. I'm as mean as the gators that roam the waters around here, and you got bit. But I can tell you that you aren't ever going to have to beg." The image of her proud spirit being crushed infuriated him.

The next time he went to Zulheil, he'd ensure that his mother-in-law had a separate account with enough funds in it to allow her to live in peace. He knew Amira wouldn't take the money from him but she'd accept a gift from Hira. Such a gift would likely rock the foundation of Marc's relationship with Kerim Dazirah, but he didn't give a damn.

He put his hands on his hips in an attempt to keep them off his wife. He wasn't much good at finding the words a woman needed to forgive a man, but when he touched his wife, she became his in the most raw sense of the word. And right now the temptation to make her his was almost unbearable. "An account was set up for you when we married and money trans­ferred into it. Monthly payments will be made into it automatically."

"What is the money for?" she asked quietly. There was such fragile dignity in her that he knew she still ex­pected to be hurt by him. And the hell of it was, he couldn't deny that he had hurt her, that she had a right to look so shell-shocked. But, damn it, he wanted to wipe that look off her face. He wasn't a saint but nei­ther was he a man who enjoyed the suffering of others.

Especially not of his wife.

"It's yours to do with as you wish. Invest it, use it for your education, blow it in Vegas, whatever you like." He could tell Hira wasn't quite sure how to take this reve­lation.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" she asked.

"I forgot." The truth was, he'd liked paying the bills for his wife's purchases, liked the proprietariness of such an act. Liked knowing she needed him for some­thing. "The documents for your bank account are in my office."

He began to walk to the house. She followed with barely a sound. Once in his study, he found the passbook and charge cards and handed them over.

She gasped when she saw the amount that had already been deposited. "Husband! This is far too much money." Her eyes were darker than he'd ever before seen.

He shrugged. "I'm very rich."

Putting the passbook and cards on his desk, she looked straight at him. "You must take it back."

"What? Why? I thought you'd appreciate the inde­pendence." He scowled.

She didn't back down. "I've done nothing to de­serve it."

"You're my wife." A wife he wanted with more than simple lust. The way she'd held his boys, the way she'd laughed with them, the way she challenged him with her wit and her honesty, wasn't something he wanted to lose.

"And yet I do nothing that a wife does," She didn't break his gaze as she made that confession. "I don't run this house as it is run very well by the strangers who come in on schedule, do their silent cleaning and leave. I don't help with your business. I am not the mother of your children." Her shoulders squared. "My mother isn't a strong woman, but she does many things to earn her income."

God, he thought, she was so proud and so very vul­nerable because of it. His Hira, his wife, could be hurt by a well-placed barb that would strike her pride before anything else. Taking a deep breath, he made a decision that might either save his marriage or expose the cracks in the foundation to the bright light of day.

"And so will you. Things have been quiet on the business front since we married, but they're about to heat up." He frowned, thinking of one particular acqui­sition. "When negotiations take place in informal set­tings, such as this house, you'll act as a second pair of eyes, ears and even hands, for me.

"I'll expect you to know the finest of fine details and get me any information I request, ASAP. I won't cut you any slack just because you're my wife. I'll be demanding as hell and I won't tolerate any mistakes. Such ne­gotiations are worth millions. Think you can handle that?"

The offer wasn't just a sop to her pride. A lot of deals were in fact completed here, away from the often viru­lent media interest. He'd never allowed anyone but him­self to be privy to the final stages of those sensitive deals. Until now.

"You would trust me with this?" Nervous excitement glittered in her eyes, but her words were hesitant, as if she wasn't sure she could believe his offer.

"I may be a jerk but I'm not stupid. Not only are you too proud to ever betray my confidence, you're a very intelligent woman." He knew that, had known it almost from the day they'd married, so why had he hurt her like that outside?

Was he afraid that she'd discover a tempting new world of academic grace and forget her bayou beast of a husband? Despite his wealth, he'd never quite lost the rough edges of his upbringing, but until he'd married Hira, he hadn't given any thought to them. Yet lately he'd begun to wonder if his lack of refinement was one of the reasons his wife maintained her emotional distance.

Shock that his motivations might be rooted in jeal­ousy and fear made him curse himself in self-disgust. He'd crawled up so far, and yet he was still the boy who'd pressed his nose against the windows of the Barnsworthy house and declared that one day he'd be oh the other side of the glass. That boy had believed that once you had something, you clutched at it with all your strength. Setting something free only meant you'd lose it for good.

"You'll have to prove yourself with your studies," he continued, fighting the clutching fingers of that abused and lonely boy, "but that's something every student has to prove. I've never seen your work, so I can't judge how you'll do. I'm sorry I tried to do that outside."

Slowly she nodded. "Withholding your judgment is not a terrible thing, for you have no knowledge of my skills. I can see how you would worry that I might not understand these subjects, but I'll show you otherwise."

He nodded, belatedly becoming aware of the steel spine beneath that delicate golden skin. Perhaps he could chance trusting her with something far closer to his heart than a business deal. "The orphanage is pretty run-down."

She adjusted to the change of topic with ease. "Yes. There isn't much room for growing boys."

"No." He perched on the edge of the desk, trying to make himself less threatening to his wife. If he tried, maybe she'd approach him, even after he'd hurt her. It was a bitter pill to swallow for a man who'd never re­lied on anyone, but he accepted that he needed more than hot sex from his wife. He needed tenderness, the one thing he could never ask for. Especially not after the way he'd let his temper rip into her. "In a few months, this house will be remodeled and made much larger, large enough to fit all of them."

Her eyes widened, but she remained silent. "I don't want the boys institutionalized. I want to cre­ate a home for them." He gave her a wry smile. "But there will be a very large private wing for us. With soundproofing."

Her responding smile was shaky. "What will happen to other orphan boys?"

"I can't save every orphan in the world, but I can save these ten. And Becky, too, soon as we find her." He wanted to ask her what she thought of his plans, his dreams, but kept talking. "The old orphanage is going to close at the end of this year, to be replaced by a modern facility. I'll be funding that, but Beau, Damian, Brian and all the others are to be mine. The legal process is almost complete."

As he watched, his wife covered the distance be­tween them in graceful strides and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. Hardly believing, he embraced her slender length, luxuriating in the feel of her warmth against the skin of his shoulders and neck. Her exotic scent teased his nostrils and threatened to bring the more primitive side of his nature to the surface.

"So you don't mind mothering ten boys and one girl?" he asked, breathing in the freshness and sweet­ness of her. Lord, he needed this woman he kept catch­ing fleeting glimpses of. The feeling of vulnerability rocked him but wasn't strong enough to make him re­lease her. "I'll be hiring several full-time helpers, so if you're not comfortable with the idea, you can—"

Drawing back, she placed a finger on his lips, her smile bright. "I always wished for many children, but my mother had difficulty with birthing, so I thought I'd only have one or two if I was very lucky. Thank you for blessing me with such a great gift, husband."

Stunned, he remembered his cutting words to her on their wedding night. He'd never thought of her as ma­ternal and then realized what a fool he'd been. What woman who didn't adore children would've won the trust of the boys so quickly? "Will it be dangerous for you to have children?" Keeping one arm wrapped around her back, he placed the palm of the other against her stomach.

Her eyes widened at the openly possessive action. "The doctors my mother took me to after I was old enough to understand the reason for her worry, told me that I should be safe but not to strain my body beyond two children."

He rotated his hand on her abdomen. He'd barely begun to understand her and already he could imagine her big with his babe. Lifting his head, he found those exotic eyes staring into his. Taking a chance that he'd won some forgiveness for his earlier burst of temper, he leaned in close and when she didn't move, brushed his lips over hers.

Electricity sizzled between them. On his shoulders, her fingers clenched convulsively. Groaning, he deep­ened the kiss and tasted the uniqueness that was Hira. She was a mix of sugar and spice, fire and ice, his des­ert beauty. Before he could prolong the contact, she'd pushed off his chest and was a foot away.

Startled, he looked up into a pink-cheeked face, won­dering if he'd misread her, if she hadn't welcomed his touch. His gut twisted. As he watched helplessly, his wife raised her hands to her face and gave him a look that was a mix of shocked innocence and sheer desire. When he moved, she swirled on her heel and left the room.

Marc began to chuckle, his tenseness retreating. Hira had just discovered that he could turn her on even when she was steamed with him. He whistled. If he had that to work with, he'd eventually get his way. And his way in­volved long, sultry nights spent cradled in his wife's body.

He must've done something right because that was exactly how he spent the hours of darkness that night.

When he surfaced the next morning, the clock told him it was close to dawn. Hira was lying on her stom­ach, using one of his arms as a pillow. His leg and other arm were flung over her, as if even in sleep, she capti­vated him. He watched her sleep, stunned at himself for doing it. It betrayed a commitment beyond anything he'd ever before experienced.

He'd spent most of his childhood as a kid without any loving ties. As an adult he'd kept that cloak of aloneness wrapped around him...until the night he'd seen Hira Dazirah on the balcony of her desert home, smil­ing up at the moon. Right then and there he'd fallen so hard and fast he'd had to have her. He'd been tied to her with passion's reins since that first moment, but yester­day something stronger had snapped into place between them, something born out of their willingness to fight rather than withdraw into silence. He was a little bewil­dered by the gentle strength of this feeling but could find no reason to fight it.

As if she'd been disturbed by his watching her, her eyes blinked open and she yawned. For a while, she lay there and watched him back, sleepy and apparently happy to be in the position she was in. Then one slen­der hand lifted to stroke his cheek.

"You appear sad, Marc. Husband." Her lips curved in a soft smile. "May I do something for you to give you joy?"

Her generous offer made his chest tight. No one had ever offered to do something for the simple reason of making him happy. "No, baby. I'm okay."

When he moved his leg off her, she rose up on one elbow and touched his cheek again. "Husband, tell me something of your childhood."

He couldn't help playing with the silken strands of her midnight-and-gold hair. "Why do you want to know?"

"It is said that the child will show you the man." She kissed his chin, the movement causing the strands in his fingers to slide away. Last night she'd been all woman, pure heat and passion. Later, when he'd tried to move away, she'd held on. He'd understood the silent mes­sage. His lover needed more than ecstasy. So he, a man who'd never been accused of tenderness, had spent the night happily holding his wife as she slept.

"You're a hard man to know so I would learn of you from your childhood."

"Did you ever learn to lie, cher?" Folding one arm be­hind his head, he ran the other down the warm curve of her back, lingering on the upward slope of her buttocks. When she didn't protest, he ran his hand back up and then down again, indulging his sense of touch.

Hira nodded vigorously in response to his question and didn't sound the least repentant when she said, "I told my father many lies." He raised a brow.

"Like when he asked me whether I had told the housekeeper to give away Fariz's old computer. I told him I had." She propped herself up on her elbows, face cupped between loose fists.

"But?"

"But I kept it hidden in my room. He never came in there. Rayaz was young and spoiled, but Fariz wasn't a bad brother. He didn't ever tell Father my secret. He even used to lend me his software."

Marc frowned. "Don't females have the same edu­cational rights as males in Zulheil?"

"Of course. My compulsory schooling was given to me, but after that...my father didn't believe in wasting college fees on a female who would simply be a pretty thing in her husband's home." She shrugged as if it hadn't mattered, though he knew it must've broken her heart.

"Why didn't you complain?"

"It would've shamed my entire clan. The Dazirah family is proud, but we're part of an even prouder clan. The clan is supposed to protect each member within it. To speak out would've been to say that they had failed in their duty."

"They did fail." His voice was hard. Protecting the vulnerable was the one thing he'd never compromise on.

"Yes, but they had many successes. Last year they sent several students, male and female, to learn ad­vanced mechanical engineering in Britain. If I had spo­ken out, their honor would've fallen in a land where honor is everything." She gave him a smile full of ma­turity. "Those who gave the educational fund assistance would've sent their money elsewhere. Now, say to me that a single woman's unhappiness is worth destroying the dreams of many."

He could see her point. "Was there no one you could've asked for help?" How could someone so bright and beautiful, someone with such a gentle heart, have spent a lifetime alone?

Her smile was tight. "I wasn't popular at school or with my cousins once I was no longer a child. They didn't want me near their boyfriends and lovers. The only girls who might've been my friends were the beau­ties who had no interest in study, and I couldn't bear to pretend to be like them. So there was no one." She paused, as if debating whether to share something else.

When she spoke, what she said sent spikes of tem­per arcing through his body. "The boys wished to be friendly with me but even the smart ones could never just be content to be my friends. They all wanted more."

"Did they—?" he began, his eyes locked on hers.

She shook her head almost immediately. "I stopped building friendships with boys very young, before they were old enough to try and do more than steal a kiss. So the boys liked me too much and the girls not at all." She was attempting to make a joke out of what must have been some very painful years.

He could imagine that lonely girl learning to become ice to survive the exclusions, the whispers behind her back. "There is someone now. You'll tell me everything."

"Yes, husband." Her voice was meek.

He frowned. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Only a little." Her eyes lit up.

It was an effort to keep his lips straight—she didn't need any encouragement. Pulling her head down, he kissed her. "So, princess, you want to know about your bayou brat?" he said, against those luscious lips that made him want to bite. Deciding there was no reason to resist, he gently nibbled on her lower lip.

"Why do you call yourself that?" she asked when he released her, her voice breathless.

"Because it's true. I grew up in the bayou, living in a shack that barely held together when the waters rose. My parents were both alcoholics who didn't give a damn about me, so long as they had enough money for booze."

"And if they didn't?"

He could still remember the blows, the pain and the darkness. "They amused themselves by knocking me around."

Hira made a sound of distress.

He soothed her with his hands and his voice. "It was okay. I could run pretty fast so I usually just hid out until they were drunk again."

Gentle feminine fingers traced a scar on his chest, so tender that the touch felt like the brush of a butterfly's wings. He should've been amused that she thought she might hurt him. Instead, his heart thundered as a hint of some powerful understanding hovered just over the edge of his horizon.

"You didn't get these because you were a fast run­ner. They hurt you badly." Her eyes dared him to explain the scars away. This woman he'd married wouldn't be soothed so easily when someone she cared for was hurt. It took him a moment to overcome his astonishment at the realization that both his wife's words and her careful touch arose from a belief that he was hers. He wanted to force her to tell him how strong Beauty's care was for her Beast of a husband, but restrained himself, unwilling to destroy the fragility of their new accord.

Instead he contented himself with answering her question, telling her something very few people knew. Her unhidden expression of care deserved to be re­warded with honesty. "Actually, I did get them for being a fast runner." He made a wry face. "When I was about seven, they were desperate for money. So they sold me."