The Sheikh's Wife. Jane Porter
something about taking care of unfinished business but she couldn’t think about that, couldn’t possibly consider anything between them unfinished. In her mind they were done. Dead. Over.
Not by her choice. It had never been her choice.
The limousine dropped them in front of an exclusive Dallas restaurant, a restaurant requiring membership, and a critical screen before a member could be accepted.
The restaurant entrance was so discreet it looked like a warehouse entrance. However, Bryn found that behind the plain concrete walls and studded steel door, the restaurant walls had been painted in gleaming shades of blue and gold and the gold-leafed ceiling glittered with dozens of extravagant crystal chandeliers.
“Hungry?” Kahlil asked, his hand resting on the small of her back.
She felt every muscle in her tighten, her body snapping to response and Bryn jerked away from him, shocked by her sensitivity. She shouldn’t still feel this way. She shouldn’t still feel anything. “No.”
The maître d’ murmured polite greetings, ushering them to a curtained booth. The heavy drapes could be closed, making the table more intimate, if required.
Seated, Bryn’s gaze darted to the thick purple drapes, praying they’d remain open, tied back with the gold tasseled ropes. Kahlil ordered drinks for them, and an appetizer. Her hands shook beneath the table. She struggled to breathe normally.
“Smile,” he said, leaning back against the plush seat upholstery. “You look like you’re being tortured.”
“I am being tortured. This is torture.”
“How far we’ve come,” he mocked, dark head tipping, black lashes lowering as he studied her grim expression. “Once you would have died for me.”
I almost died living with you.
But she didn’t say it. He knew nothing about her last night in Tiva, or her friendship with his cousin, a friendship that proved to be a terrible, nearly tragic mistake. “You can’t take over my life, Kahlil. It’s been three years, three and a half years, since we were together. I’ve changed—”
“Yes, you’ve grown rebellious.”
“I’ve just grown up. I won’t take orders from you anymore.”
“I never had to order you to do anything. You did everything for me,” and his accented voice caressed the word everything, “eagerly.”
Her stomach clenched. She wouldn’t think about the past, wouldn’t think about their old relationship. “Kahlil, I want a divorce and I am going to file for one first thing in the morning. Stan knows an excellent lawyer and he and I will be married eventually.”
Kahlil made a rude sound, deep in his throat. “I hope your Stan is a patient man because he’s going to be kept waiting a very long time. I’ll tie you up with every legality I can. You name it, I’ll do it.”
She stared at him as though he were the devil himself. “Why? What have I ever done to you?”
His golden gaze raked her bare shoulders and simple black dress. “You broke your word.”
So that was it. This was just about revenge. About inflicting pain. Fear balled in her stomach and she realized yet again how dangerous this was for Ben.
The appetizer arrived, a savory baked crab dish with buttery crumbs and cheese. Bryn normally loved crab but at the moment her stomach was so queasy she could barely tolerate the smell, much less eat. Kahlil, she noticed, took none, either. “I thought you were famished.”
“I am. I’m waiting for you to serve me.”
As if she was one of the women from his harem! Incredible. “You are not helpless, Sheikh al-Assad!”
“But why should I serve myself when you are here to serve me?”
She glared at Kahlil, resenting his beauty, the black hair, the strong brow, the elegant sweep of cheekbone. She’d fought so hard to free herself, ripped her heart in two to escape him. It had taken her years to move forward and now that she finally was ready to marry again, he’d returned.
Treacherous man. Man that could disarm her with just a glance from his beautiful eyes. She’d loved him too much, needed more from him than he could give.
Blindly she stumbled to her feet, her long black dress tangling between her legs. His hand snaked around her wrist and drew her roughly down again. “You are not excused.” His dark eyes flashed at her, deep grooves etched on either side of his imperious mouth. “You did not ask my permission to leave the table.”
“I’ve never asked your permission for anything and I’m not about to start now!” Good God, who did he think he was? Bryn threw her head back, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I can’t believe I once imagined myself in love with you. What a fool I was!”
“You didn’t imagine it. You did love me.”
“Did,” she repeated bitterly, “as in past tense. I only feel hatred for you now.”
“Love, hate, who cares? I’m more interested in ensuring you honor your vows.” His anger emanated from him in great silent waves. “I realize you were very young when we married but I’ve given you time to grow up. Three and a half years. Now I’ve come to bring you home.”
“Zwar is not my home!”
He snapped his fingers. “Semantics,” he said brusquely. “I’m tired of debating. The fact is your place is in Tiva, at the palace, bearing my children.”
“That is one scenario which will never happen.”
“You think you’d be happier married to your pathetic little insurance agent? I’ve had my intelligence look into him and he’s a man without fire, a man without drive—”
“And I love him.”
“I don’t care. You can’t have him.”
Anger swept through her, anger so strong that she lifted her hand and took a swing at his face. He caught her by the wrist just before she struck his cheek. “Have you lost your mind?”
Her wrist tingled from the tightness of his grip, his fingers wrapped viselike around her fragile bones. “Leave Stan alone. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“But you do. You’ve insulted me, and my family. You had a responsibility—you were Princess al-Assad—and you abandoned my people.”
Her wrist began to throb. Tiny pinpricks flashed against her closed eyelids. “Please, release me.”
“I expect an apology.”
“You’re hurting me.”
His nostrils flared, his dark eyes flashing, but he opened his fingers, freeing her wrist. She drew her arm back to her lap and stared at her wrist, seeing the livid marks of his fingers against the paleness of her skin.
Kahlil dragged the heavy velvet drapes closed. The violet-purple fabric fell in deep inky folds, hiding them from the rest of the restaurant.
He was pulling her back into his world, forcing her to submit. She couldn’t let him. She wasn’t just his wife. She was a mother, Ben’s mother.
The tears that she’d fought so hard to contain trembled on her lashes, slipping free. She pressed her lips together, fighting to keep control.
“Do not cry,” he said roughly. “I won’t have my wife weeping in public.”
“You’ve drawn the drapes. No one can see.”
“I can see.”
Everything about him was so hard. Every word sounded harsh. She clamped her jaw shut, refusing to engage in a battle of wills with Kahlil. He was a far better debater than she. He was far better at everything than she, but that didn’t make his needs more important, his feelings more correct.