LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes flashed, his lean jaw hardening. He was so very, very beautiful. It wasn’t an incongruous word when applied to a man who looked like Malik did. Jet dark hair, chiseled features, honed body, bronzed skin that looked as if he’d been dusted in gold. The most sensuous lips God had ever created. Lips that knew how to bring her to the brink of screaming pleasure again and again.

      A tiny shiver crawled down her spine. She should have known a man like him could never truly be interested in her.

      “Why would I chase you down, Sydney?” he demanded, ignoring her question. “You chose to leave. You could have chosen to come back.”

      She drew herself up. Of course he would think that way! Because he hadn’t been affected by her going. “I had no choice.”

      Malik snorted. “Really? Someone made you walk out on our marriage? Someone forced you to run from Paris in the middle of the night with one suitcase and a note left on the counter? I’d like to meet this someone with such power over you.”

      She stiffened. He made her sound so ridiculous. So childish. “Don’t pretend you were devastated by it. We both know the truth.”

      He brushed past her to stand in the open door and look at the ocean while her heart died just a little with each passing second as she hoped, ridiculously, that he might contradict her.

      Why did a small part of her always insist on that rosy naiveté where he was concerned?

      “Of course not,” he stated matter-of-factly. Then he turned and speared her with an angry look, his voice turning harsh. “But I am an Al Dhakir and you are my wife. Did you not consider for one moment the embarrassment this would cause me? Would cause my family?”

      Anger and disappointment simmered together in her belly. She’d hoped he might have missed her just a little bit, but of course he had not. Malik didn’t need anyone or anything. He was a force of nature all his own.

      She’d never understood him. That was only part of the problem between them, but it was a big part. He’d been everything exotic and wonderful and he’d swept her off her feet.

      She still remembered the moment she’d realized she was in love with him. And she’d thought he must feel the same since she was the only woman he’d ever wanted to marry.

      How wrong she’d been. It hadn’t taken very long for her naive hopes to be ground to bits beneath his custom soles. Her eyes filled with angry tears, but she refused to let them fall. She’d had a year to analyze her actions and berate herself for not demanding more from him.

      From life.

      “That’s why you’re here? Because you’re embarrassed?” Sydney drew in a trembling breath. Adrenaline surged in her blood, but she was determined to maintain her cool. “My, my, it certainly took you a long time to get worked up.”

      He took a step toward her. Sydney thrust her chin out, uncowed. Abruptly, he stopped and shoved his hands into his pockets. The haughty prince assumed control once more as he looked down his refined nose at her. “We could live apart, Sydney. That is practically expected, though usually after there is an heir or two. But divorce is another thing altogether.”

      “So you’re embarrassed about the divorce, not about me leaving,” she stated. As if she would ever consider having children with him. So he could leave her to raise the kids while he dallied with mistresses?

      No way. She’d been such a fool to think their lives could be normal when they came from such diverse backgrounds. He was a prince of the desert. She was plain Sydney Reed from Santa Monica, California. It was laughable how deluded she had been.

      “I’ve let you have your space,” he continued. “But enough is enough.”

      Sydney felt her eyes widening. A bubble of anger popped, sending fresh heat rushing through her. “You let me have my space? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

      His eyes flashed. “Is that any way for a princess to talk?”

      “I’m not a princess, Malik.” Though technically his wife was a princess, she’d never felt like one, even when she’d still been happily married to him. He’d never taken her to Jahfar; she’d never seen his homeland or been welcomed by his family.

      She’d never even met his family.

      That should have been her first clue.

      Shame flooded her, made her skin hot once more. How naive she’d been. When he’d married her, she’d thought he’d loved her. She’d had no idea she was simply an instrument of his rebellion. He’d married her because she’d been unsuitable, no other reason. He’d wanted to shock his family.

      She’d simply been the flavor of the moment, the woman warming his bed when the idea occurred to him.

      “You are still my wife, Sydney,” he growled. “Until such time as you are not, you will act with the decorum your position deserves.”

      Sydney’s stomach was doing flips. She clenched her fists at her sides, willing herself not to explode. What good would it do?

      “Not for much longer, Malik. Sign the papers and you won’t have to worry about me embarrassing you ever again.” Or that she wasn’t good enough for his family’s refined taste.

      He closed the distance between them slowly … so slowly that she felt as if she were being hunted. Her instinct was to escape, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. She stood her ground as the ocean crashed on the beach outside, as her heartbeat swelled to a crescendo, as he came so close she could smell the scent of his skin, could feel his breath on her face.

      His fingers snaked along her jaw, so lightly she might have imagined it. His eyes were hooded, his expression unreadable. She fought the desire to close her eyes, to tilt her face up to his. To feel his lips on hers once more.

      She was not that desperate. Not that stupid.

      She’d learned. She might have been blindly, ignorantly in love with him once—but she knew better now.

      His voice was a deep rumble, an exotic siren call. “You still want me, Sydney.”

      “I don’t.” She said it firmly, coldly. Her legs trembled beneath her, her nerve endings shivering with anticipation. Her heart would beat right out of her chest if he kept touching her.

      But she would not tell him to stop. Because she would not admit she was affected.

      “I don’t believe you,” he said.

      And then his head dipped, his mouth fitting over hers. For a moment she softened; for a moment she let his lips press against hers. For a moment, she was lost in time, flung back to another day, another house, another kiss.

      An arrow of pain shot through her breastbone, lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. Was she always destined to hurt because of him?

      Sydney pressed her hands against the expensive fabric of his jacket, clenched her fingers in his lapels—and then pushed hard.

      Malik stepped back, breaking the brief kiss. His nostrils flared. His face was a set of sharp angles and chiseled features, the waning light from the sunset hollowing out his cheeks, making him seem harder and harsher than she remembered.

      Sadder, in a way.

      Except that Malik wasn’t sad. How could he be? He didn’t care about her. Never had. She’d been convenient, a means to an end. Impressionable and fresh in a way his usual women had not been.

      The slow burn of embarrassment was still a hot fire inside, even after a year. She’d been so thoroughly duped by his charm.

      “You never used to push me away,” he said bemusedly.

      “I never thought I needed to,” she responded.

      “And now you do.”

      “Don’t I? What’s the point,

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