Jane Porter - The Sheikh's Wife

He shrugged in the semidarkness. “I don’t need to win you over, I already own you.”

He touched her again, this time brushing her shoulder with the tip of his finger, gliding over heated skin. Bryn felt a ball of desire coil in her belly.

“Three years I’ve waited for you,” he continued softly. “Three years. You don’t think I’m going to let you escape now?”

“Loving someone isn’t about possession!”

“Who said anything about love? I’m thinking retribution.”

He’s proud, passionate, primal—dare she surrender to the sheikh?

Find rapture in the sands, in Harlequin Presents ®

This month, Jane Porter brings you the exotic, erotic story of an American woman reunited with her sheikh husband. His pride has been hurt and he wants revenge; she’s determined not to submit…until they rediscover what brought them together in the first place….

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

BRYN caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror as she headed toward the front door, the doorbell still ringing as she padded along the carpetless hall. Sheen of white dress, brilliant blue eyes, flushed cheeks. A radiant bride. And she did feel beautiful, more beautiful than she had in years. In just seven short days she’d be a bride again. She’d be Stanley’s wife.

Smiling, Bryn hummed the wedding march as she swung the front door open, late-afternoon sunlight washing over her in streaky gold waves, briefly blinding her.

Blinking, she made out broad shoulders. The high curve of cheekbone. A beautifully shaped mouth. And only one man had that mouth. Her heart staggered to a stop. “Wh…what…are you doing here?”

“Hello, darling. It’s nice to see you, too.”

Time stopped, changed, and for a split second she was somewhere else, spellbound. It was just like the day she met him, the day she reversed her small Volkswagen, and slammed into his silver Mercedes Benz. Her car was totaled. His was merely dinged.

Bryn felt the impact again, the air knocked out of her lungs, her lips parting in shock. “Kahlil.”

“You remembered, good.” He looked amused, but then, his gold eyes always smiled when he was angry. Lifting a sheet of paper, he dangled it in front of her face. “Now perhaps you’ll remember this,” he drawled softly, giving the paper a gentle shake.

Bryn stared at the paper blankly, unable to read the words. Only his voice penetrated the muddle inside her head, his voice still husky, his English formal, the same English he’d learned as a child in an English boarding school. “What is it?”

“You don’t recognize it?”

Her fingers felt nerveless as she clutched the door. “No.”

Kahlil chuckled, the sound warm, indulgent, an indulgence he’d shown toward her early in their marriage when she’d been his prized American bride. “It’s our marriage license. The little piece of paper that legally binds us together.”

She couldn’t speak, her throat swelling closed. He must be out of his mind, she thought, forcing herself to look into his face, meet his eyes.

He didn’t look crazy. If anything he looked calm, perfectly controlled, as though he knew exactly what he was doing, as though he’d planned this surprise visit on purpose.

A week before her wedding…

Her thoughts spun, her brain fogged by shock and fear. What if Kahlil discovered Ben? What if he found out about their son?

No. She’d never go back to him. Never return to Zwar. Bryn drew herself tall, conviction making her back straight, her determination reinforcing her courage. “I don’t understand what that has to do with us.”

“Everything, darling.” He was gazing down at her with considerable interest, thick black lashes fanning his carved cheekbones and the bronzed luster of his skin. “I’ve come to see why you’re getting married again when you’re still married to me.”

Still married to him? Ridiculous. If he thought he could hoodwink her with a silly statement like that, then he had another thing coming. She wasn’t eighteen anymore. She wasn’t a child bride, either. “We’re not married,” she said crisply, disdain sharpening her voice. “We were divorced three years ago.” How could he still refuse to accept their divorce? It’d been three years, more than three years. Three and a half years, actually. “I’m not in the mood for games. Perhaps in Zwar, divorces aren’t permitted, but here they’re perfectly legal.”

“Yes, darling, I understand that much. And perhaps you’ve forgotten I have a law degree from Harvard, an American university, and despite my Arab nationality, I grasp the legality of an American divorce, but we were never divorced.”

There was a quiet menace in his voice, a menace she heard all too clearly. Her head jerked up, her gaze clashing with his. “If this is your idea of a joke—”

“Have I ever been a comedian?”

No, she answered silently, bitterly. He was one man in desperate need of a sense of humor.

“I’m trying to prevent you further embarrassment,” he added with the same infuriating calm. “I considered waiting until you’d arrived at the church, the guests filling the pews. I could just picture your eager groom at the altar, standing there in his black-and-white tux—he is wearing a tuxedo, isn’t he?”

She couldn’t bear to be the brunt of Kahlil’s scorn. She’d witness him level others in the past, but never her. Kahlil had never been anything but protective, generous, loving.

Her heart squeezed on the last one, pained by the unwanted memory. Their marriage had been brief. Too brief but she couldn’t go back, couldn’t undo the past. “I think it’s time you left.”

He put his hand in the door to keep her from shutting it in his face. “I’ve tried to be polite, but perhaps it’s better if I’m blunt. There will be no wedding next Saturday. And as long as I live, there will be no wedding to any man, ever.”

She ground her jaw together, struggling to contain her temper. Maybe in his country men could veil their women, tell them how to dress, what to think, where to go, but not in the United States, and not in her home. “I don’t belong to you.”

“Actually, in Zwar, you do.”

“People are not objects, Kahlil!”

Pushing the door all the way open, he picked her up, hands encircling her rib cage, thumbs splayed beneath her breasts. His fingers felt like fire against her skin, searing straight through the bodice of her gown. Her breasts tingled, her senses responding to him just as they’d always responded to him. He could turn her into puddles of need in no time flat.

Kahlil tipped her backwards just enough to knock her off her feet, and sent her heart racing. “How could you possibly think I’d let you marry another man? How could you think I’d give you up?”

“Because the divorce—” she choked, beginning to feel genuinely frightened, not by him but by the idea of still being married to him. Their marriage was over; it had to be over.