Nalini Singh - Craving Beauty

Jasmine turned to take a seat beside her husband on the other side of the comfortably small table.

A little shaken by the power of that quiet statement, Hira took the chair Marc held out for her. There were no servants in the dining area tonight, because this was most definitely a meeting, despite the abundance of de­licious dishes on the table. He touched her fleetingly on the shoulder before taking his seat.

It made her aware of how he always touched her, and had done so since shortly after she'd learned about the orphanage. A caress, a stolen kiss, a squeeze of the fin­gers, she'd become so used to being touched by Marc that she'd never questioned what it meant. . .until she'd seen the sheik touch his wife, and realized that for a strong man to show such open affection implied a great deal of feeling.

Smiling, she turned to him as he sat down and gent­ly put her hand on his thigh, out of sight of the others. He looked startled but then favored her with that slow smile that always proved lethal to her composure. His hand drifted down to hers and their ringers intertwined. "Let's begin with a toast." Tariq held up his glass and they followed. "To a long and happy partnership."

They all clinked glasses. The dinner took more than four hours, with all of them ending up in a small sitting room talking over several documents. Hira spent con­siderable time discussing an interesting idea regarding the tigereye prism with Jasmine. Marc didn't even check up on her once, and his trust that she'd look after their interests cemented her love for him as nothing else could've done.

"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.