Nalini Singh: Craving Beauty

His wife had no way of knowing that Nicole was like a sister to him. From what she'd revealed of her parents' marriage, he'd bet she'd think he was going to his "other woman."

No curiosity enlivened her closed expression. "As you wish." Despite his attempts during dinner, she'd refused to soften in any way. It was almost as if she were willing him to forget the woman he'd glimpsed in that instant's vulnerability on the verandah.

"You've probably seen Nic on the ads for Xanadu Cosmetics." React, damn it, he wanted to say. Show me you care about this marriage. . .about your husband.

"She is lovely."

Cold as ice, Marc thought once again, furious at himself for hoping for something more. "Perhaps I should've just married Nic instead," he muttered under his breath as he left the room, not intending his new wife to hear the wholly facetious comment.

Hira felt his words impact like sharp stones against her heart, wounding and so incredibly hurtful that she couldn't breathe. She sat there, unable to move for what seemed like forever. Marc had stalked into the spacious living area abutting the kitchen but had left the door open. Though she couldn't distinguish the words, she could hear the deep rumble of his voice.

And occasionally she could hear a low male chuckle.

Clenching her hands on the arms of the chair, she made herself take deep, calming breaths. The feeling of betrayal persisted. She didn't know why, but she hadn't expected that kind of cruelty from the man she'd married. He'd been so gentle, so tender with her feel­ings on the plane that he'd fooled her completely. And on the verandah. . .his rough understanding had been her undoing.

So quickly, so suddenly, he'd threatened to win her trust. Terrified of his power over her, she'd retreated be­hind the only protection she had—an icy facade that was as brittle as summer frost. The whole time that they'd sat across from each other at this table, she'd ached to place her faith in him, but the part of her that had grown up watching her father ambush, then degrade her mother's pride, had cautioned her to wait before she made an awful mistake. And that bruised part of her had been right. If Marc could cause her such torment now, how much worse would it have been if she'd taken those first halting steps?

Feeling lost and alone, she finally stood, searching for something to occupy her mind and her stupidly trem­bling hands. How had it happened that she'd become so vulnerable to this man she'd married, when she'd learned to protect herself from cruelty after growing up under Kerim's rule?

She couldn't bear to go up to hep lonely room and shut herself in. She'd been shut in most of her life. No more, she decided. Her eye fell on their dinner dishes. Glad to have something concrete to do, she gathered them up and took them to the sink. Cool air whispered between her legs from the sway of the ankle-length skirt she'd changed into. Teamed with a white cotton blouse that had an elasticized neckline and little puff sleeves, it made her feel free. She vowed no one would steal that feeling from her.

Midway through the chore, her husband returned, apparently finished with his "Nic."

Perhaps I should’ve just married Nic instead.

The painful words rocked through her again. She wanted to throw something and ask him why he hadn't married his precious Nic! Why had he brought her out of the desert if he didn't want her? But she didn't speak, too used to having defiance punished by harsh measures.

The punishments hadn't destroyed her fire, but they'd taught her to be very careful as to whom she trusted with her thoughts and emotions. Sometimes those closest to you promised the least safety.

Marc was taken aback to see his princess of a wife efficiently doing the dishes. When she placed the washed dishes in the drainer, he grabbed a dish towel and started to wipe them, wondering once again if he'd been too hasty. For some reason, Hira made him react with quick-fire temper, when he had a reputation for steely control under pressure.

She sent him a startled glance out of those slanted eyes. "You do women's work?"

He grinned. " Cher , I used to be a dishwasher in a res­taurant when I was a sprat."

That gave her something to think about, because she didn't speak until the work was complete. Despite the disaster the evening had been so far, he'd hoped that they might have coffee together, but she started to head up­stairs to her bedroom.

"Hey." He grabbed her arm, careful of his strength on her fragile flesh. "We have to talk." He didn't know what he was going to say. He just knew that something had to be said. They couldn't keep living like this—two strangers who'd said some vows and now found them­selves locked in the same cell together.

"Why? Do you wish me to come to your bed?" Arc­tic frost coated the question. Standing a couple of steps above him, she looked down on him as if he was a lowly slave, her expression as cold as a desert dawn.

He dropped her arm with a sound of disgust, all his newfound warmth lost in the chill emanating from her. "Damn it, I don't do unwilling women."

"Then you will never 'do' your wife." Her fists were clenched by her sides, her lips pursed tight. It was the first hint of emotion she'd revealed since those mo­ments on the verandah.

He was too furious to decipher the message blaz­ing in her suddenly dark gaze. "What, my hands too dirty for you, princess? Did you realize that my money isn't enough to make you forget my roots?" His voice was harsh. What the hell was he doing? He was a man hunted by many women, but for some rea­son he wanted this one who held him in contempt. Only this one.

She frowned at his hands, as if not understanding the metaphor. "I don't know anything of that. I only know that you have shown your disregard for me by saying you should've married this Nic. I don't wish to remain here with a man who finds it so easy to hurt me."

The bluntness of her words rocked him out of his anger, while the shadowy fear she quickly hid made his next words tender. "Aw, hell. I'm sorry." He raised his hand again and with a gentle grasp on her left hand, tugged her down a step, wondering at,the cause of that flash of sheer panic. What scars was Beauty hiding?

"I didn't mean for you to hear that." God, he was an idiot. No wonder her back had gone rigid the instant he'd returned to the kitchen. "It was just my temper talk­ing, baby. Nic's like my kid sister."

"You give me an apology?" Astonishment rang in every syllable.

Her hand in his was a warm token of trust he hadn't expected. "I acted badly. You have my humblest apolo­gies, princess."

"I. . . That is all right." She was looking at him as if she couldn't understand him, her eyes tawny with sur­prised warmth, no hint of ice in sight. This was the woman who'd smiled at him shyly across a crowded room, lovely and vibrant and everything he'd ever wanted.

"What's wrong, cher?" The endearment slipped out—her perplexed expression was so very innocent.

Not fighting him when he used his free hand to move a strand of hair off her face, she said, "My father never apologized. He said it was not the husband's role to take blame." Her eyes met his, at once confused and daring.

Marc raised a brow. "What if he was wrong?" He shoved his free hand deep into his pocket to keep from reaching out and stroking the curve of her cheek, from luxuriating in the feel of that golden skin stained with softest pink. There was too much wariness in her gaze to chance the intimacy.

"He said he was never wrong."

"One heck of a way to win an argument." Pulling his hand out of his pocket, he rubbed the back of his neck instead of her cheek. Takes the fun out of fighting, doesn't it?"

"Why would an argument be fun?" She frowned.