Nalini Singh: Craving Beauty

He'd never seen hair like hers, inky black except for the hidden strands of almost pure gold. Somehow he knew the colors were without artifice, her beauty hyp­notically real. The ends had curled in the humidity and he wanted to wrap those curls around his fingers and tug her to him. His body was suddenly heavy. Needy.

He'd never needed anyone.

"What's in it?" he asked, to distract himself. Hadn't Lydia taught him anything? Beautiful women were mirages—there was nothing beneath the glittering surface. Yet he'd married this lovely creature expecting her to be more. He still did.

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.

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.