Nalini Singh: Craving Beauty

The Clendon readers are the first-round judges for the Clendon Award, founded by Barbara and Peter Clendon.

Though their identities are fiercely guarded,

I've met many of them through the score sheets

they filled out for my entries for the award.

Their comments and encouragement were invaluable

to a writer walking the rocky road to publication.

I'd like to take this chance to thank those anonymous

judges for the work that they do, and the Clendons,

for creating the award. Merci beaucoup.

“With this bond, I take my life and put it in the keep­ing of Marc Pierre Bordeaux. Forever and eternity." Hira's heart shattered into a thousand pieces as she re­peated the ritual words.

Smiling, the elder lifted the trailing edge of the silken red ribbon tied around Hira's wrist arid fed it through the lacy aperture atop the wall dividing the men from the women. The marriage ceremony was almost complete—soon she'd be wife to a man with ghost-gray eyes.

What should've been the most wonderful day of her life was instead marking the destruction of her dreams. Dreams of love, dreams of family, dreams of tenderness. Because instead of being wooed and won, Hira Dazirah had been part and parcel of a business agreement.

Her wrist jerked as the ribbon went taut. At the same time, the elder said, "He is bound."

On the other side of the wall, a single voice rose in the haunting cadences of the blessing chant.

Per the customs of her homeland, Zulheil, in a few more seconds Marc would be her husband. Marc with his slow smile and eyes full of temptation. Marc with his war­rior's face and hunter's walk. Marc, who'd demanded her father seal their business deal with his daughter's hand.

She'd thought him different. From the first, his ob­vious strength had attracted her, as had the way he had of looking at her as though she was precious. Then he'd smiled at her in that slow, sexy way. Unable to resist, she'd softened inside and out, responding to the glitter­ing passion in his eyes.

Believing that their shared smile augured the begin­ning of something priceless, she'd waited for him to court her. For the first time since Romaz had trampled on her heart, she'd felt the bloom of new hope.

Two days later he'd offered for her hand, without having spoken to her, and her illusions about her Amer­ican stranger had shattered. Instead of wanting to know the woman, Marc had been entranced by the shell of her body, the beauty of her face. The staggering pain of her bewilderingly intense disappointment had yet to leave her. It sat like a heavy rock on her heart, crushing and unable to be ignored.

"It is done," her mother, Amira, said. "The blessing chant has been completed. You are married, daughter."

Hira blinked and nodded, none of her anguish show­ing on her face. They sat in a sumptuous room filled with the women of the Dazirah family, women whose sharp eyes missed nothing. She would never shame her mother by coming apart at the seams.

Amira stroked her cheek. "I know this is not what you wanted for yourself, but it will be all right. Though your new husband is scarred, he doesn't appear cruel."

Not unless cruelty could be defined as inciting hope and then crushing it. "No," she whispered. "He doesn't."

But that told her nothing. Romaz hadn't appeared cruel, yet he'd ripped out her heart and laughed at her while he'd done it. She'd thought herself in love, so much so that she'd left her home and ran to him, ready to marry him without her father's consent.

It had been the only time in her life that she'd con­sidered an action that would've brought the scorn of society on her proud family. That fateful day, her hap­piness had been as iridescent as a summer rainbow, joy­ous and pure.

The minute he'd seen her in the doorway of his hum­ble apartment, Romaz's dark-lashed eyes had lit up in surprise. "Hira. What are you doing here?" He'd glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting an entourage.

She'd walked in, brushing past him, sure of her wel­come. After all, he'd told her that he loved her. "I have come to stay," she'd said, excited and a little afraid but so glad to be with the man she loved.

He hadn't embraced her as she'd anticipated. "Your family?" he'd asked, a frown on his handsome face.

She'd thought his reserve sprang from displeasure at her forwardness and had been sure that once he heard what she had to say, he'd forgive her for taking the ini­tiative. "They won't miss me till dinner. We have time to marry. They cannot stop us after that."

Some of her nervous joy had started to fade at his continued lack of a response. "Romaz?" She'd glanced at the still-open door, wondering why he didn't shut it so they could have privacy to make their plans.

He'd given her a strained smile. "Your father will dis­own you. You must think this through."

"I have! He'll never agree to our marriage. Never. Al­ready he seeks other matches for me." She'd wanted to touch him, but there had been an unfamiliar hardness in his eyes that had stopped her. "We don't need my fa­ther's money. You work hard and I'll get work, too. We'll survive."

The bitter smirk on his face had confused her. "You? You wouldn't know honest work if it hit you in the face."

Shocked, she'd stood there, unable to understand his anger. "Romaz?"

"Do you think I'll be able to keep you in the style to which you're accustomed?" He'd glanced dismissively at the bracelets around her wrists and the baubles in her ears.

His response sprang from male pride, she'd thought, relief shooting through her body like cool spring rain, bringing renewed hope. "None of it belongs to me. It is the family's." Stupidly she'd thought that that would re­assure him. "I don't need such things if I have your love." She'd been so earnest in her desire to nurture his self-confidence.

"Well you might not, but I do," he'd snapped.

Later she'd realized it was the very naiveté of her statements that had caused his charming veneer to crum­ble.

Her attempt at salvaging his pride had instead proved the futility of his courtship. Financially Hira was worth nothing without her family.

"What's the use of marrying you if I don't get access to the Dazirah coffers?" He'd raked her body up and down.

"You might be beautiful, but in the dark, one fe­male body is the same as another."

She'd been so badly wounded by that unexpected blow that she'd frozen, her feet rooted to the floor. "You won't marry me unless I come with my father's money?"

He'd shrugged. "How else do you expect me to move up in life? Unlike your wealthy family, I have only one asset—my looks." He'd pointed to a face so handsome it routinely caused women to stop and stare in the streets. "I intend to use them to my advantage. I don't want to labor all my life like my father."

His sneer had destroyed her final illusions about him, for his father was a respected and skilled man. His fam­ily wasn't as rich as hers, but they weren't poor, either. Zulheil looked after its own, but no man could expect to gain wealth without work. Her father, too, spent much time "laboring" in his businesses.

Yet, even after Romaz had said those horrible things, even after she'd seen the truth of his nature, she hadn't wanted to give up the tattered remains of her dreams. Hadn't wanted to admit she'd made such a horrible mis­take. She'd been so foolishly innocent of the ways of the world, so untutored in deceit. "But. . .you said you loved me."

His expression had turned into a leer. "Any man would love a body like yours. Of course, I'll take that part of you if you're offering it without charge. Marriage is too high a price to own just you."