He hadn't begun annulment proceedings because he couldn't bear to let her go without trying to plumb the depths of the woman behind the sophisticate—the woman he'd barely glimpsed that night when she'd thought herself alone. What he'd felt for her at that moment had been brilliant, and so pure it had shocked him. He wasn't going to give up on that feeling until all hope was lost.
Her face turned pink as she stepped up to the verandah. "N-nothing. Just clothes."
Suddenly he knew she was lying. His anger was as cold as a chilling frost; Blocking her entry into the house, he stood as close as the suitcase allowed. "Don't lie to me. What—did your lover give you a going-away present?"
She blinked at him with those absurdly long lashes and if he hadn't known better, he'd have thought she was trying very hard not to cry. He fought the protective impulse that urged him to haul her into his arms.
"No. No lover gave me any presents. These are my books." Her gaze was mutinous, but he could see the faint tremor in her lush lower lip.
Her little dig about getting no presents from him hit the mark. He'd taken one look at her, at the secrets in her tawny mountain-cat eyes, and wanted her. Her father's scheming had only speeded up his plans. "Why the hell would you lie about books? What's really in there?"
She glared at him and dumped the case on the wooden planks of the verandah, then knelt down to unlock it. He waited. What did she hope to prove? After the final tumbler clicked into place, she threw him a rebellious look and flung open the lid.
"Books," she said, smoothing the faded cover of one. "I tell you no lies." Her voice shook.
Confused by the vulnerability he could hear, he went down on his haunches beside her. "Why did you try to hide them from me?" He was almost jealous of the reverence with which her slender hands touched the cracked spines and dog-eared pages.
She closed the lid as if to conceal them once more and relocked the case. "My father didn't think that women should have much learning. He threw away my books when he could find them." She wouldn't look at him, shielding herself behind a waterfall of shimmering hair.
Well, hell, that was one answer he hadn't expected. Very carefully, with all the gentleness he had in him, he stroked her hair aside so he could see her face, his hand cupping her cheek. She flinched but didn't move away. "You don't have to hide your books from me."
He felt the shudder that shook her frame. Finally she raised her head, her gaze wary. "Is that true or are you. . .playing with me?"
The guarded look in those eyes was one he recognized. She expected to be kicked when she was down, to be humiliated and laughed at. That she should expect it of him was infuriating, but he understood that the lessons of a lifetime couldn't be forgotten in a day.
"I promise you it's true." In apology for the way he'd jumped on her, he told her something of himself. "I know the value of books. As a child, I read everything I could find. I'll never begrudge you knowledge." He removed his hand. "There's a library on the first floor. Use it whenever you want."
Pressing her lips tight, she gave a jerky nod. "Th-thank you. . .husband." It was the first time she'd acknowledged his claim over her, and there was no taunt or barb in her voice. Instead he heard a bone-deep vulnerability that threatened all his beliefs about her.
Unsettled, he stood and offered her a hand. After the tiniest hesitation, slender feminine fingers slipped into his.
As she rose, his eyes dropped unintentionally to the skin bared above the modest neckline of her sleeveless top.
Sheened with sweat, her golden skin glowed. Heat flickered to life within him. No matter what his mind knew, his body couldn't understand why he was keeping his distance.
He forced his gaze to her face. It didn't do much good. It was as sensual as the rest of her. Full lips, sharp cheekbones, eyes a strange hypnotic shade of lightest brown that gave her a slightly feline look.
"You are so beautiful," he found himself saying, unable to believe the reality of her.
She gave him a tight smile and tugged her hand away. "Yes. People always tell me that."
It should've sounded conceited. Instead, her tone held such sorrow that he stopped her from heading inside, putting his arm around her waist when she tried to walk past. The heat from her body passed through her cotton top and over him like a secret caress.
"And you don't like that?" He frowned.
She looked at him with those amazing eyes. "I am more than a face and a body. I am Hira. But no one wishes to know Hira. Please, I'm tired."
He released her. Stubbornly clutching her precious case, she moved past him in a wash of soft perfume and an indefinable scent that was uniquely her. As he retrieved the other bags, he wondered if she placed him in the same category as those other people. And, if she did, was she right? He'd brushed aside her claims of interest in economics and thought she wouldn't know one end of a book from another. He'd been wrong on at least one count and that indicated he might be wrong on the other.
Or his beautiful, spoiled wife was playing games with him, trying to mess with his head.
Of all the possibilities, that seemed the most likely. First she freezes him out of their bed, then she comes across needy and scared on the plane, now he sees this tenderhearted hurting creature. Who was the real Hira? Marc hadn't yet made up his mind. He hadn't reached where he had in life by making snap decisions. Then again, he'd asked for her hand before he'd spoken a word to her.
Perhaps, he accepted, there was some truth in her complaint. When he'd seen her on that balcony, had he wanted to know Hira? Had he fallen for the soul of that lovely woman who'd seen magic in the moonlight?
Or had he wanted to own that beautiful creature, wanted to show the world that the upstart Cajun with a patched-up body and face could own something so exquisite, most men would never even dream of it?
It.
His blood chilled. When had he become the kind of man who treated a person as a commodity? When had be become like the rich men he hated, the ones who collected beautiful young women as expendable accessories?
No, he thought. No. He wasn't like them. If he were, he wouldn't have experienced such disgust at his momentarily aberrant thoughts. If he had nothing emotional invested in this marriage, the visceral pain he felt at the thought that he might have to dissolve it wouldn't exist.
Perhaps he could be accused of arrogance, but he'd been treated as a nonperson once. As a thing. He would never do that to another human being.
Not even to his ice queen of a wife.
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.