Eleven
"God, I'm exhausted." Dressed only in his dress pants, Marc fell back onto their bed. Rubbing his eyes with his hand, he smiled, looking very much like a satisfied hunting cat. "But it was worth it."
She nodded. Having already changed into a short nightdress with thin straps, she crawled onto the bed and knelt facing her husband, combing her hair. "This could build into a long-term business relationship."
Marc's eyes followed her strokes. "I intend it to. I like working with Tariq. He's got integrity as well as the negotiating skills of a shark."
"That's why he likes you also." She put the brush down on the nightstand and moved to undo his belt, using the excuse to stroke his firm abdomen. Under her hands, he was pure male strength, the seduction of his hunter's body enough to make her ache for his possession.
His smile as he watched her with blatant proprietariness made her stomach tighten in expectation. Marc had a particular look in his eye tonight, a look that said he intended to take his time with her.
She was proved right.
They'd both agreed to spend the next day with her family. Hira wished to see her mother and brothers but didn't particularly care about her father.
"It's only one day. You can stand the man for that long," Marc said when she made a sulky face.
Sighing, she nodded and got out of the car, waiting until Marc was beside her before heading up the steps to the place that had once been her gilded prison.
Her mother was overjoyed to see her. Even her brothers were happy, welcoming her with crushing hugs and small but thoughtful gifts that touched her. Perhaps they'd turn out all right after all. Her father grunted and shook Marc's hand; smile wide. Hira left him to Marc and went to spend time with her mother, the documents for the account she and Marc had opened in Amira's name safe in her purse.
Marc watched Hira go off with Amira Dazirah with mixed feelings. On the one hand he was glad she was happy to be in Zulheil, but surrounded by reminders, he couldn't help but remember the way he'd rushed her into marriage. Her father had provided the impetus, but the choice had been his. He couldn't deny that he hadn't tried very hard to change Kerim's mind. He'd wanted Hira, and he'd gone after her with every bit of his considerable will.
It hurt more than he could've imagined to know that because of that single rash act, his wife would never view him with the kind of tenderness and love she'd told him she'd dreamed of. How could she possibly understand that when he'd seen her on that balcony, it hadn't been her beauty that had transfixed him?
No, it had been something far more ephemeral, something that had tugged at his soul, a knowing that she was his, a possessiveness that hadn't let him sleep until he'd made her his in reality. How could he explain that to her without ripping open his heart? He wasn't ready for that, not when she sometimes still looked at him with shadows in her brilliant eyes.
His wife had adjusted to him, but he needed far more than simple coexistence from her. He needed her heart and soul, her hope, her everything. He needed her to need him, because all of him, even the lost and lonely bayou boy he'd been, had become enthralled with her. It was an enchantment that demanded his soul. He couldn't fight it, couldn't go back to his lonely, untrusting existence...couldn't stop needing her so much that his hunger was a physical ache.
Late the next day Hira tried to talk to her husband about what had turned his gray eyes dark when she hadn't been looking. In the space of a few hours, he'd gone from teasing and laughing with her to almost complete silence.
"Nothing," he said, his tone curt.
When she pushed, he kept responding with monosyllabic replies that made her want to hit him over the head with a blunt object. Frustrated by his recalcitrance, she finally left him and went off to indulge herself with a bath, muttering under her breath about males in general and one male in particular.
He found her fifteen minutes later, while she was sitting on the edge of the huge square-shaped bath filled with cool flower-scented water. Because of her perch, the lapping water only covered her up to the thighs. Looking up, she saw familiar desire flare in his eyes as he gazed at her naked form. Ignoring the heat that uncurled luxuriously in her stomach, she stared back, feeling just a bit put-upon by his moodiness.
"What?" she finally said, when he remained silent.
"Nothing. I have to go out."
"Fine." She glared at him.
"Don't you care where I'm going?" His tone was jagged, torn, those eyes of liquid silver gone cloudy.
And she wanted to hit him, not soothe him. She'd had it! Absolutely and utterly! Letting out a stifled scream, she picked up the sponge she was using to smooth water over her body, and threw it at his chest.
He caught the sponge against his body. When he lifted it off, a wet patch marred his vivid blue shirt. Before he could speak, she said, "Why should I worry about a husband who turns cold on me when I've done nothing wrong? You and your black mood can both go to hell for all I care!"
That was when he stalked to her, all male arrogance and smoky eyes filled with some emotion she couldn't read. She sat in place, though it was difficult to be composed while her body was laid out for his perusal.
He was close enough to touch. "You just told me to go to hell." Holding her gaze, he dropped the sponge into the water, sending ripples chasing across her thighs.
"Why do you sound so surprised? After the way you've been acting today, I'm entitled to my temper." To her complete and utter shock, he kicked off his shoes and sat down beside her, straddling the bath. One jean-covered leg went in the water, the other remained outside. He didn't even blink.
"You don't have that look in your eyes anymore," he murmured. His hand began to play with a strand of her hair that had come undone from the knot on top of her head.
She slapped his hand away. "What look? And don't try to get back in my good graces. I want to enjoy my bath without my bad-tempered husband." Turning away, she scooped up water in her hands and let it run over her legs.
If he wanted to watch, that was fine. She refused to be hurried just because her body reacted like wildfire to his. She could control herself, she thought grimly. She would not give in to the urge to rip open his shirt and lick her way up to his lips. She would not! Why was he still sitting there? A woman only had so much self-control, even when she was using anger to fuel it.
"Aren't you wondering why I've been acting like I have?" Marc finally asked, scooping up water in one hand and dripping it over her thighs.
She sniffed to fight off a shiver at the intimate act, pressing her thighs together to still the ache in between her legs. It only intensified. "I don't know what it is that I did, but clearly, I've done something wrong. You're merely trying to reinstate your rights over me by showing me this coldness." She made a face at him. "I will not be treated so!"
At that instant her American did something she'd never expected. Putting both hands on her shoulders, he pulled her toward him and planted a hard kiss on her startled lips. "To hell with my rights!" Wild hunger raged in his eyes, but this hunger was deeper than the body, so deep that she thought she could see his soul in the suddenly piercing quality of those always-well-guarded eyes.
"The reason I've been acting like a wounded bear is because I worship the ground you walk on. Being here reminds me too much of how we started this marriage, how I killed all hope of love between us with the way I claimed you without courtship. I love you, princess, and I can't stand it that you'll never love me back." He kissed her again, strong and swift. It felt like a brand on her heart.
"Heck, love doesn't begin to describe what I feel for you—this emotion's like a fire inside of me that refuses to go out. It's passion that stuns me when you smile and tenderness I didn't even know I could feel. It's not roses and moonlight, it's lightning and forever."