Nalini Singh - Craving Beauty

He couldn't help the smile that curved his lips. Lean­ing close, he deliberately crowded her with his body, the devil in him winning over. "Because then you get to make up, princess." His breath sent the tiny tendrils at her temples dancing. His lips were a whisper from hers, his senses awash in the sensual woman scent of her. Giving in to temptation, he raised his free hand to cup her face, wondering at being able to touch someone so soft and delicate.

Eyes wide, she jerked her hand from his and turned to run up the stairs so fast he had no time to react. His smiled faded with each step she took. What had he ex­pected? That his scarred face would entice her into his arms? Though he refused to admit it, her rejection hurt in a soul-deep way that left him no room to hide. As an­other one of his dreams crumbled to ashes, he followed his beauty far more slowly up the stairs.

Always a loner, tonight he found his bed cold.

Hira lay awake late into the night. It was her hus­band's fault. He'd done something to her. Every time she thought she might fall asleep, ghost-gray eyes prodded her awake, asking her for something she had no knowl­edge of.

She knew he desired her. Most men desired her. It wasn't something she was proud of. It hurt to know that they wanted her only for her body and face. Not one of them would be able to tell her anything of her true self. Had she married just such a man?

He saw her as a "princess," a woman who had no re­deeming qualities or many brains. But he wished to lie with her. It wasn't flattering to her to be compared to those American bimbos she saw with their rich, old hus­bands.

Sniffling, though she wanted to be haughty and unaffected, she gave up trying to sleep and rose.

After snuggling into a sunny yellow robe adorned with a single red rose on the back, she sneaked down­stairs with the intention of making hot chocolate. In the foreign books she'd read, it had been called "comfort food," and comforting was just what she needed.

She felt alone, adrift. It was as if her mind and body were disconnected. The smart part of her knew that if she allowed herself to feel tenderness for Marc, the hunter in him would seek total surrender. Her first im­pression of him had been of danger. Every time he came near her, every time he threatened to tear down the walls that had protected her from hurt all her life, that impres­sion was cemented. Yet the sensuous heart of her nature found his masculinity hypnotically compelling. What was she supposed to do with these strange feelings?

And why hadn't her husband come to her tonight? She'd been terrified that he would, unaware how to cope with the sudden heat flooding her body, but she'd ac­cepted the inevitability. She was his wife. He'd left her alone last night because she'd shown him anger, but to­night he'd wanted her and he had to have guessed that she wouldn't deny him again. Not when she'd reacted to his touch as if she'd been struck by lightning. Yet he hadn't come.

He confused her, her big husband who moved like a desert hunter with his lean body and watchful gaze, and who smiled at her as if they shared some secret.

Marc heard Hira leave her room. He wondered what she was doing wandering around the house at this time of night. His heavily aroused body was keeping him awake, but she had no such excuse. From the way she'd run, the woman had no more desire for him than she had for a rabid gator. Grunting, he got out of bed, pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and started downstairs. To hell with caring for her sensibilities. If she couldn't handle the scars that marked his body, they might as well find that out fight now.

He'd never had trouble drawing women, but they'd been tough women, women who prowled for men and knew exactly what they wanted when they got him. And it wasn't tenderness. Gentle, pretty women like his wife tended to find his patched-up body and face distasteful. If he knew that, why was he putting himself through this? he asked himself bleakly.

Shaking his head, he walked downstairs. When he entered the kitchen, Hira was pulling down the tin of hot chocolate from a high cupboard. Her hair fell thick and straight over her shoulders like a black-and-gold mir­ror, shimmering against the vibrant yellow of her thin robe. Lord, but she was beautiful. If only if he could fig­ure out whether that beauty was also of the heart, he might yet survive this marriage.

"Hungry?" he asked, walking into the room.

Startled eyes in that strange shade of lightest brown met his. She blinked as if to ensure he was real. "I couldn't sleep." It was a grudging admission.

He deliberately crossed his arms across his chest, wanting her to look at him, really look at him. Despite her sophistication, even she wouldn't be able to hide an instinctive reaction. "Neither could I."

Her eyes refused to budge from his face. "Do you want some?" She put down the tin and opened the fridge door. "There is no milk!" Clearly frustrated, she glared at him over one shoulder.

He grimaced. "We'll get some more groceries to­morrow."

She closed the door and put the tin away, scowling at him. "But I don't have what I wish now."

"A little delayed gratification never hurt anyone." Now, if only his body would understand that, they'd both be far more comfortable.

Pursing her lush lips, she started to walk past him, nose in the air, hips swinging in a way that was utterly natural and sublimely female. The same devil that had got him in trouble before made him reach out and grab her upper arm, warm through the cool material of her robe.

Those almond-shaped eyes, mysterious and layered with secrets, clashed with his. "Let me go."

"Why?" he asked, encouraged by the slight blush in her cheeks, the fire in her eyes.

"Because I don't wish to do this and you said you wouldn't use force."

Was that fear in those magnificent eyes? No, he thought, gentling his voice nonetheless. "But what about persuasion?" His breath whispered over her lips, his tone husky. He made no effort to hide his honest desire for her. The sexual awareness between them couldn't be one-sided, not when every breath he took burned with passion.

She reared back. "You wouldn't be able to persuade me to do something distasteful to me." Her words were like swords, stabbing into him, adding to the scars on the inside, scars so bad that it was better they lived in darkness.

"If you try despite knowing that, it will make you no more than an animal in heat."

Hurt more than he would've believed by that verbal shot, Marc dropped her arm and turned his back to her. At least now he knew that this hasty marriage had no hope of ever surviving. Then why couldn't he reconcile himself to walking away? "Good night, princess."

Hira stood there staring at Marc's rigid back, aware that she'd hurt him. She had never intentionally hurt an­other human being in her life. Conscience told her to apologize; the part of her that he'd been taunting was smug, but the biggest feeling was confusion. For there was nothing distasteful to her about her husband. De­spite trying to keep him at a distance, she'd allowed him close. Romaz had never made her feel this chaos of mingled joy and terror. And she'd thought she'd loved him.

Overwhelmed and unable to understand what was happening to her, she whirled on her heel and escaped to her room. Inside, she paced across the small space over and over, shocked at the heat that had flooded her body at her husband's proximity. Her mother hadn't told her of these things. All she'd said was that if her hus­band was a gentle man, he would be careful of her fears.

Hira herself had learned long ago how things were in the marriage bed. However, she had no practical ex­perience. Even with Romaz, she'd behaved with the ut­most decorum. It had been easy to resist his attempts at seduction.