Nalini Singh: Craving Beauty

It had been a shameful thing for her to do, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it. An emotionless coup­ling with a man she'd barely spoken to would've made a mockery of all her beliefs about the meaning of the most intimate act between a man and a woman.

Even though the man she'd denied made her body heavy with desire so hot and blinding, it rocked the foundations of her understanding about her own heart.

Shivers raced up her spine at that traitorous thought. Blinking furiously, she fought them off, though she knew that this blazing heat wouldn't disappear so easily. Not when she was wife to die man who was the cause of her confusion.

Expecting a fight, she set her jaw and forced herself to leave her room. But what she found on the lower floor was far more unsettling than an angry husband. Suit­cases lined the hallway, several of them hers.

Shaken, she walked into the living room and saw Marc bent over a table, signing something. "We are leaving?"

His dark-brown hair gleamed in the sunlight angling through the windows as he glanced at her before turn­ing back to his papers. "Yes. In an hour." With strong strokes, he signed his name on another line.

Inordinately crushed by his dismissive attitude, she managed to ask, "Where?"

"My home. Louisiana. Near Lafayette." His words were curt, holding no welcome.

She thought for a moment. "That state has much water but also pra. . .prairies and its borders touch the Gulf of Mexico. Lafayette is near Baton Red. . . No, Baton Rouge. It is sometimes called Cajun Country, is it not?"

The man she was joined to was staring at her. "What, you read encyclopedias in your spare time?"

Since that was exactly what she did, she scowled at his sarcastic tone. "They are very informative." And she was starved for information.

Her father didn't believe in higher education for fe­males, but she'd managed to educate herself, first through books and later through clandestine use of the Internet-linked computer in the study. As a teenager, she'd railed against the unfairness of being denied the educational opportunities lavished on her two uninterested brothers, but had soon realized the futil­ity of her pleas.

"What's your favorite subject?" It was the lack of sar­casm in Marc's question that startled her out of her dark mood.

"You're not making fun of me?" She didn't under­stand his curiosity. Her husband was not reacting as she'd expected. Instead of nursing his anger over their disastrous wedding night, he appeared to be trying to fa­cilitate a conversation between them.

Those piercing eyes seemed to narrow. "No."

"Well then. It is economics, theories of management, things such as that." Aware that it wasn't a feminine type of subject, she stared right back at him, defiant.

"Sure, princess. I believe you." He appeared to be fighting a smile.

Suddenly her frustration erupted. "How dare you. . .what is your word. . .patronize me? You see only what you think to see. You cannot recognize what is beneath the surface for you are a man who buys only on outward appearance!" She turned on her heel, the wind gener­ated by her dark skirts buzzing angrily around her legs. "I will be ready to leave within the hour."

His arrogance made her angry, but beneath the anger the broken edges of lost dreams rubbed her raw with pain.

Despite everything, she'd dared to dream that her American husband would be a man who'd allow her to spread her wings and fly. That hope was now forever lost.

He was just like her father, intent on caging her in the box he'd set aside for her in his mind. She'd fallen for his slow, seductive smile—so rare on that brutally masculine face... a warrior's face—forgetting that being akin to a warrior was no guard against male failings.

Marc frowned as he watched his wife storm out of the room, as regal as a true princess. He'd learned long ago that appearances counted for nothing. Had he com­mitted the cardinal sin and judged his wife on her beau­tiful face rather than what lay within?

It took him only a minute to discard that idea. If she was so damn smart, what was she doing living in her fa­ther's home, on his charity? Zulheil wasn't a restrictionist culture. Sure, the women were well protected and cherished, but they were allowed the same opportuni­ties as their male counterparts.

If nothing else, Hira could've gained the money she needed for study by joining the modeling world. The minute she walked into an agency, the bookers would've crawled on their hands and knees to sign her up. One of his best friends had clawed her way out of poverty using her face, and he respected her for it.

Snorting at almost falling for his spoiled new wife's tricks, he continued to sign papers relating to a minor outstanding matter. He'd have to return to Zulheil in a month or so for a further set of negotiations, but right now he was needed in Louisiana.

Truth to tell, he missed his watery homeland. All this stunning golden desert and too-blue sky could get wear­ing on a matt used to humidity and mosquitoes and the occasional gator.

Hira didn't speak to Marc again until they were wing­ing their way through the clouds, seated side by side in the first-class cabin of a commercial jetliner. Having never flown before, she was feeling more than a little lost and wished Marc would talk to her instead of work­ing on his documents. He might be stubborn and inclined to snap, but at least she knew him. All these other people were strangers, even the flight attendants who smiled at her so nicely but whose eyes were cold.

They thought her nothing but a pretty face, a rich man's newest toy. Marc's dismissive attitude toward her had undoubtedly strengthened that belief. Her anger at the way she was always labeled without being given a chance was a pulsing wound inside her, a wound that grew each time she tried to protect herself by showing a cold face instead of shattering with rage.

Even the times when she'd broken down and cried, she'd done so in the dead of night, in silence. Who could she tell? Who wouldn't laugh at her and call her a "poor little rich girl," as if her looks and her father's wealth meant that she was never to be accorded any real sympathy?

Yet all her life, how she'd envied those plain girls who were adored by their husbands for their laughter and their wit; girls who would never have to worry about being forgotten once their skin wrinkled and their bodies changed. Girls who could joyfully confess to gaining a few pounds, safe in the knowledge that in their husbands' eyes they'd remain forever beautiful.

Despair and hurt tangled inside her soul, making her want to scream and cry at the same time. But she did neither. She'd been brought up to be the perfect daugh­ter and the perfect wife. Seen, not heard. Never heard.

The blond flight attendant passed by again, giving Marc a subtly interested glance. He didn't look up. At least he wouldn't humiliate her by openly flirting with other women, though it was likely that many would throw out lures.

He wasn't a man who could be described as hand­some, but there was something compelling about him. Power and strength, buried passion, depths without end—he had the kind of charisma women found ir­resistible. She'd been pressured into marrying him, but in the privacy of her mind, she admitted that he was a man who made her blush with impure thoughts.

The first time she'd seen him, he hadn't been aware of her scrutiny. She'd been standing in a hidden alcove on the upper floor of their home, looking down onto the banquet hall to check that everything was in order. Barely after she'd arrived, her eyes had landed on Marc, drawn by his magnetic presence.

He'd been standing alone in one corner, his deter­mined and ruthless nature stamped on his features. She didn't fear ruthlessness—all the truly strong males she knew had that element in their makeup. It was part of what made them the powerful men they were.