A racy little sports car had been delivered for her personal use a few days after her arrival in America, and just last week, his secretary had accompanied her on a shopping trip to a number of designer boutiques where Marc had set up accounts for her use. But despite his generosity, he'd never once given her anything that might be interpreted as the least bit romantic. Perhaps he didn't wish her to get the idea that she meant more to him than a pleasurable face and body.
So where had the flowers gone?
Who had they gone to?
Her heart felt as if it was slowly breaking into a thousand little pieces. Could it be that her husband had become more than just a lover? Could it be that she was the trophy to show off, while his heart belonged to a woman he couldn't marry for some reason?
It wasn't such a ridiculous idea. Her father's longest-serving mistress was a twice-divorced Parisian dancer whom he'd known since before his marriage. She'd once heard him say to her brother, Fariz, that though he couldn't let the woman go, he'd never considered marrying her--a man of his standing needed a wife with a pristine past.
Pain beat at her temples as, for the first time, she realized that this hunter of an American with his quick mind and compelling eyes meant far more to her than a convenient husband. In her heart she'd claimed him as hers the first time he'd teased her with that slow smile. And that had been back in Zulheil.
She didn't know if she loved him, but she did know she felt things for him she'd never felt for any other man. He was her husband and she wouldn't sit aside and let him betray her. She wasn't a toy he could play with, as he'd played with her last night, and then put back in her box when she became inconvenient.
Gulping, she considered confronting him right then and there. Only a second later she thrust that idea aside. He was half-naked right now and would surely see her entry as an invitation to seduction. No, she couldn't let him touch her body while he thought of another woman.
The past few days had been torture, last night had been pure humiliation, given that she'd been trying to keep her distance while she decided whether or not he was cheating on her. With hands that caressed and teased, lips that lavished attention on every secret corner and husky whispers that rasped along her skin, he'd made her give up all her precious dignity and taken his pleasure in her shuddering climaxes.
She could accept his lack of loving, but it was unbearable that he might be giving some other woman the very affection he couldn't find in his soul for her. She had to know the truth. But how?
"Hira." Marc's deep voice came through the door.
"Yes?" Startled, she stood and walked over to stand on her side of the wooden barrier, hoping he wouldn't ask her to open it. Today he'd have no trouble seeing past the ice princess to the very human woman underneath, and she couldn't bear that, not when he might be in love with another woman--someone whom he adored far more than her beautiful face and sexually enticing body. Marc might pity his jealous wife, and that would be the greatest cruelty. Alone in this new land, her pride was all she had.
"Get dressed, cher. We'll go grab dinner--I'll introduce you to the best jambalaya in town."
Her husband's voice held infinite gentleness. After the way he'd tamed her last night, he probably felt as if he could be gentle, for what weapons did a woman so capably taken have?
"I do not wish to." Even to herself she sounded as welcoming as winter frost. It was the only way she knew to protect herself, the only way she'd ever been able to bear her father's treatment of her mother and dismissal of her own dreams.
Silence from the other side. Then a short, "Suit yourself. Don't wait up," he added sardonically.
Ten minutes later when she heard him drive away, she suddenly realized how she could find out the truth. Her husband was always out on a Wednesday and Sunday. Tomorrow was Wednesday and to her knowledge Marc wasn't planning on going into his city office.
*
At around four the next afternoon, Hira sat behind the steering wheel of the sleek sports car Marc had given her, wishing it were any color but cherry red. She'd told her husband she was going for a drive, but instead she was hiding behind a curve in the road, her ears straining for the sound of his truck. It was shameful but she was going to follow her husband.
Perhaps if he'd come to her upon returning home, she might have broken down and confronted him. But when he'd come through the front door late last night, he'd stalked into the master suite without pausing. She'd thought that despite his dictate that she share his bed, he hadn't cared enough to search her out.
Inexplicably hurt, she'd lain awake for hours, missing him and thinking about the other woman who was keeping him satisfied. But if she were to be honest, her pain had been filled with a great amount of anger. It was that anger that had given her the courage to do what she was about to undertake.
Anger and frustration, for her stubborn husband had come to her last night, deep in the darkest hours when her defenses had all been down. He'd aroused her body, had her whimpering even before she'd fully wakened. Then he'd taken her, storming her senses with fierce purpose.
There hadn't been anger in his touch, but something far more dangerous--a possessive surety that indicated he viewed her as belonging to him, a situation he'd never allow to change. He'd driven her to erotic ecstasy and then he'd started over, giving her another look at the wild male underneath the civilized man. As far as that hunter was concerned, she was his. Full stop. End of story.
By the time he'd finished with her, she'd been so exhausted with pleasure she hadn't been able to speak. She'd barely registered the fact that he'd carried her to the master suite, hauling her possessively close to his side. This morning he'd wakened her with that same intense hunger, watching her go over the edge, allowing her to hold nothing back.
Though she'd felt the raging desire in him, his steely control hadn't broken. That control had hurt her already bruised heart--she'd thought them equal in their desire for each other. Yet he'd given her no chance to seduce him, controlling their sensual dance till the end.
A throaty rumble sounded. Mouth suddenly as dry as dust, she started her own engine and crept around the corner. Marc was just turning right. Swallowing, she followed. As the immediate area around their property was trafficless, she had to hang back until his car cleared each tree-lined curve. After more than ten nerve-racking minutes, they entered a comparatively busier area, but given her distinctive car she knew she couldn't chance getting closer.
Strung taut with nervous tension, she lost track of time as they drove out of their isolated patch of bayou country and north toward Lafayette. For a while they hugged the Vermillion River, but soon even that landmark disappeared, leaving her solely reliant on following Marc.
Relief came as they headed into Lafayette proper. Marc remained on the outskirts of the city, near a large park, but the streets were busy enough to allow her a chance to relax from the constant fear of being spotted. It helped that not a single road in this place seemed to go in a straight line.
The last five minutes of the journey were the most difficult. Because the streets were quiet and contained many turnoffs, she had to stick closer than she liked or lose her line of sight. But at last he turned into the drive of a large house.
She parked her car a few doors down, behind a black van, her eyes drawn to the house. Children's toys lay here and there in the yard, and a swing set was just visible on the other side. Her hands squeezed the steering wheel and she almost forgot to breathe as it hit her that he might have children. In her pain over the flowers, she'd forgotten the receipt for clothing from a boys store.
When she finally dared to walk down the street to look at the faded sign near the gate, she was startled to see the words Our Lady of Hope Orphanage for Boys.
An orphanage?
Mind in turmoil, she returned to the car. It appeared that her aloof husband wasn't meeting another woman, but what was his connection with an orphanage? And why had he kept it secret from her? Turning the key, she w
ent to start the car. A big male hand reached inside and jerked it out.
Crying out, she whirled around and looked into the furious face of her husband. "Marc!"
"Get out!" He pulled open the door.
She obeyed, shaken by the visible rage on his face. Once she was standing in front of him, she didn't speak, waiting for his words. And his punishment. From what she knew of men she didn't believe he'd let her go this time without trying to humiliate her pride.
"You think I didn't see you following me?" he demanded, eyes glittering. "What kind of game are you playing?"
"I thought you were meeting another woman," she admitted, her throat dry. She'd never seen him this openly furious, this out of control.
He seemed to get even angrier. "You want to see what I'm doing? Then come with me. Let's see what happens when you're faced with something that's not so pretty and pampered like the rest of your life, princess."
She didn't point out that she was only pampered because he wanted it that way. He'd been the one to set up accounts for her at the most exclusive boutiques, the most expensive stylists, as if she were an accessory that needed to be polished, she thought with a stabbing pain inside her stomach. Well, she'd always known where her worth lay. And she'd walked into this relationship with her eyes wide open. It did no good to rail at fate.
Now instead of arguing she went with him, the full skirt of her sunny-yellow dress whispering around her ankles. He tugged her up the stairs of the orphanage and pulled her inside the run-down building. An old man looked up from a desk in a room just off the entrance...A room that held a huge vase of wildflowers.
"Father Thomas." Marc's tone conveyed the deepest respect. "This is my wife, Hira."
The man smiled and stood. "My dear, it's lovely to finally meet you." Father Thomas walked over to the doorway and held out his hands.
Though Zulheil's ways were ancient and unlike those of her new home, there was such wisdom and peace in this man's faded-blue eyes, Hira knew he was close to divine grace. Awed, she went to him and bent down so he could kiss her cheeks. The hands that held her own were wrapped in papery-thin skin, but as strong as a young man's.
"I am honored, elder." She gave him the honorific of her land, wishing she wasn't wearing a sundress. In Zulheil, respect would demand formal clothing for such a meeting. Some of the old ways were worth following.
He chuckled. "You are a lovely young woman. A gentle soul."
The compliment brought tears to her eyes, for despite his ability to pinpoint their location, she could see that he was almost blind. This man saw Hira, not just the face and the body that were her trappings.
"You've done well, my son. I suppose you want to show her off to the boys. Off you go, daughter. I expect to see a lot more of you."
Hira smiled, feeling more warmth from this frail old man than she ever had from her own father. "You will." She turned and let Marc lead her away, leaving the elder to his ruminations.
The second they were out of earshot, he said in a cutting whisper, "Good performance, babe, but the boys won't be fooled so easily." Suddenly he paused. "Damn it, what the hell was I thinking? I shouldn't have brought you here--they've suffered enough." The bitterness in his tone startled her. "It's too late now. Don't hurt them."
Before she could ask him to explain the deep and uncompromising care she heard in his tone, they walked into a large kitchen. Ten boys of different ages, from a skinny five-year-old to a gangly youth of about fourteen, appeared to be trying to cook. Flour had turned the floor white but it was the childish laughter and the joy on their faces that held her attention. Then they saw her.
And the laughter died.
Six
"Boys, this is my wife, Hira." Marc's tone held no hint of anger but she could almost feel his tension.
Immediately Hira was aware of the wariness in the boys' eyes. "I'm pleased to meet you." She smiled, but there was no response, not even from the youngest of them all.
She didn't panic, conscious that they had no reason to trust her, but even so, she was at peace. She adored children and they'd always been her friends when older women had rejected her. Children didn't judge a person on anything but their heart.
Ignoring the flour that dusted the floor, she knelt down in front of the youngest. "What is your name, laeha?"
His eyes widened at being singled out, but he didn't look away. "Brian." It was a whisper.
"And what are you cooking, Brian?" He was so thin, she wanted to put him in her lap and feed him.
"Apple pie...for dessert."
"I have never eaten apple pie," she admitted.
Someone gasped. "Never?"
She rose to her full height. "I'm not from America. Your apple pie is not made in my homeland."
"Where are you from, then?" another boy asked.
She looked across at the dark-haired child. "Zulheil. It is a desert land. I find your, uh, Cajun Country too green. There are growing things everywhere." It still disconcerted her that flowers bloomed in the grass. She kept trying to avoid stepping on them, for flowers were precious in the desert.
A bespectacled boy gave her a tiny smile. "I read about Zulheil on the Internet. You look like the pictures of the people, but you're dressed different."
"I am trying to...Husband, what is the word?" She glanced over her shoulder, wondering who'd hurt her Marc so very much that he couldn't find it in his heart to trust her with his secrets. Secrets like why these orphans meant so much to him.
"What?" He looked like an immovable wall, arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed watchfully.
She smiled at him, treating him with the same gentleness as the children--she was beginning to see that he carried scars on the inside just like these wary babes. "For trying to fit in here?"
His eyes narrowed farther. "Blend."
"Yes." A smile broke out in her heart at his warning glare. Teasing her arrogant husband could be fun. "I've been trying to blend in. Do you think I will succeed?" she asked the children, once more turning her back on Marc.
Yet she could feel his presence like a physical touch, the tiny hairs on her nape standing to attention at his nearness. Her husband had branded her with his mark and her body knew it. She just had to keep him from finding out. The minute he discovered just how vulnerable she was to him, he'd stalk in and take full advantage. She wasn't ready to allow that, not while he refused to share the most important pieces of his self with her.
The bespectacled boy shook his head. "You're too pretty and you talk different."
She made a face at him, at ease with his honesty about her looks whereas adult comments made her bristle. "I do not wish to be the same as everyone else, anyway. Do you?"
He thought that over. As he did, she saw that though he was small, he appeared to be the leader of this troop. "No," he finally said. "Only pod people are all the same."
Confused, she looked to Marc for help. "Pod people?"
But it was the tall boy who answered, "Have you got a lot to learn! We're watching that movie again tonight because Damian can't get enough. You can watch, too."
"I have no idea what you are talking about, but I agree to watch this with you." Hira laughed at the grin that crossed the tall one's shy face. "So how do you make this apple pie? There must be flour on the floor, yes?"
At that, everyone but her stubborn-male of a husband laughed. When little Brian's hand slipped into hers, she picked him up and set him on her hip, uncaring of the flour and little-boy dirt on him.
Unable to stifle her concern and unwilling to do so, she asked, "Do you not eat, laeha?"
He wrapped skinny arms around her neck and laid his head down on her shoulder. "I'm sick. What is a laeha?"
Stroking his back, she said, "It means darling child." The literal translation was darling baby but she had a feeling that none of these boys would appreciate knowing that. Walking over to the bench, she saw the somewhat abused-looking dough. "I will make this apple pie with you. I saw it once on a tel
evision show. They had ice cream with it."
A groan from behind her. "Don't you go putting ideas in their heads."
Delighted to have provoked a reaction from Marc, she opened her mouth to respond. The boys beat her to it.
"Too late. Ice cream sounds good," a voice piped up.
"Yeah, yeah. Who wants to go with me to the store?"
There were two volunteers.
"Husband, can you also bring back almonds?" She thought and then added cinnamon and cardamom to the list. "And also vermicelli."
He didn't ask her why she wanted the odd ingredients. "Sure. We'll be back soon." His eyes turned flinty and focused on the boys around her. "Don't eat my wife."
The drawling warning made Hira scowl. "These lovely children won't hurt me. You must not say such things."
He just raised his brow. After the door closed behind him, she turned to the remaining boys. "My husband believes you will behave like wild camels while he is gone. I wish to make him..."
"Eat his words?" said Damian.
"What does that mean?"
"Prove him wrong."
"Yes." She nodded. "Yes. He's always right. It's most annoying. Let us prove him wrong."
They grinned at her. And she knew the little devils were well aware she liked them. In her arms, Brian wriggled and settled in more firmly. She saw a few of the boys' eyes go to the littlest boy in hunger. So, she thought, they were not cuddled much.
Her husband likely gave them his strength but wasn't much of a cuddler. Even in bed he rarely gave the comfort of simply being held. Starved for it herself, she knew how much it meant to be touched in simple affection. Reaching out to the boy closest to her, she ruffled his hair. He didn't move away as most children his age would have.
His eyes looked into hers, too old in that young face. "You must be okay if Marc married you."
Ah, she thought, understanding their willingness to trust her. "Or I could be as the dragon in the tale of the 'Secret Princess.'" Her big, brooding husband might be a most unaccommodating male, but he'd done something good here, given these boys a sense of safety in what was undoubtedly a shifting world.