Strangers in the Desert (3 page)

His eyes hardened. “What proof would you have me give you? Shall I tell you that we met only a week before we married, and that you were as frightened and meek as a lamb? Or perhaps you’d like to hear that the wedding feast went on for three days and cost in excess of a half-million American dollars? Or that your father was supremely pleased that he’d managed to wed you to a prince?”

Isabella’s stomach went into a free fall. “A prince? You’re a prince?”

“I was,” he said, and though she didn’t know what he meant by that, she didn’t ask.

She wiped damp palms across her sarong. It simply couldn’t be true. Status was everything in Jahfar. If her father had managed to arrange a marriage with the royal family, he’d have been so proud. He would not have lied about it.

“Tell me something about me,” she said, apprehension fluttering inside her belly along with the first swirling current of doubt. “Tell me something no one else knows.”

“You were a virgin.”

She stamped down on the blush that threatened.
Was
a virgin? “That wouldn’t have been a secret. Tell me something I might have told you, something personal.”

He flung his hands wide in exasperation. “Such as? You weren’t very talkative, Isabella. I believe you once said that your single goal in life was to please
me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she answered, her voice little more than a whisper. Because she
had
been raised to please a man, to be the perfect wife, and it was exactly the sort of thing she would have been expected to say. But to actually have said it? To
this
man?

“Enough,” he said, slashing a hand in the air before reaching into his khakis and pulling out a cell phone. “We are leaving.”

“Wait just a damn minute,” Isabella cried, closing the distance between them and grabbing his wrist before he punched the buttons. He wasn’t
listening
to her, and she wasn’t about to meekly accept his decree.

Heat sizzled into her where she gripped him. So much heat. Her fingers couldn’t span his wrist.

He gazed down at her with glittering dark eyes. His
sensual mouth was flat, hard. She wondered what he looked like when he smiled. Black stubble shadowed his jaw, so sexy and alluring that she wanted to reach up and feel the roughness against her palm.

His gaze settled on her mouth, and she suddenly had a picture in her head of him kissing her. The image was shocking. And she didn’t know whether it was a memory or a desire.

Yet her body responded to the very real longing it called up, softening, melting, aching. The moment spun out between them until she felt as if they must have been standing this way for hours.

He swore softly in Arabic, and then he broke her grip on his wrist and tangled both his hands in her hair. Something dropped and hit the woven rug beneath their feet. Her heart thundered in her chest, her throat. He took a step closer until he was inside her space, dominating her space. She wanted to pull away, and yet she couldn’t do so. She didn’t like men who tried to dominate her—

And yet …

And yet …

Hands still tangled in her hair, he tugged her head back, exposing the column of her throat. He was so much taller than she was. She should feel vulnerable and afraid, but she did not.

“See if you
remember
this,” he growled.

His head descended and her eyes dropped closed without conscious thought. He was going to kiss her, and she realized with complete shock that she wanted it. How could she want it when she didn’t even like him?

But she did. And she knew she would hate herself for the weakness later.

His mouth didn’t claim hers, however. Instead, she felt the touch of his lips—those hard, sensual lips—in the tender hollow of her throat. She gasped as sensation rocked her, throbbed deep in her core.

His tongue traced the indent of her collarbone. He pulled her head back farther, forcing her to arch her body against his. Her breasts thrust into his chest, into the warmth and solidity of him. Her nipples were aching peaks against the thin cups of her bikini. Surely, he knew it, too. She was embarrassed—and not embarrassed.

Her hands tangled in the silk of his shirt, clinging for dear life as his mouth moved up her throat, his kisses stinging her with need.

And then he claimed her mouth. She opened to him, let him sink into her, met him as an equal. The ache inside her chest was new, and not new. She thrust away thoughts of a possible past she couldn’t remember and tried to focus on the now.

On the way he kissed her as if she was the only woman in the world. The heat between them was incredible. Had she really been chilled only moments ago? Because now she wanted to tear at the layers of clothes between them, to remove all barriers, to quench this fire the only way it could be quenched: by opening her body to him, by joining with him until the fire burned itself out.

If what he said were true, then how many times had they begun just like this? How many times had they lost themselves in each other’s embrace after a scorching kiss? She couldn’t ever remember being with this man—being with any man—and yet her body knew. Her body
knew.

One hand left her hair, spanned her rib cage, his
fingers brushing beneath her breast. She couldn’t stop the little moan that escaped her as he gently pinched her nipple through the fabric. The sweet spike of pleasure shot through her, connecting to her center. Liquid heat flooded her, so foreign and familiar all at once.

She became aware of something else then, as her body ached for more touching, more soft exploration. Of something thick and hard pressing into her abdomen. The first ribbon of unease rippled inside her. This couldn’t be a good idea.

She couldn’t give herself to him. She simply couldn’t. She’d already let it go too far.

She should have never touched him. She didn’t understand it, but it had been like setting a match to dry tinder.

She could feel an answering change in him, as if he too were confused and wary about what was happening between them. Before she could push him away, he stepped back, breaking the contact between their bodies.

The loss of his mouth on hers was almost a physical pain. She wanted to reach for him, pull him back, but she would not do so. She could not ever do so.

He looked completely unaffected as he bent to pick up his phone from where he’d dropped it when he’d shoved his hands into her hair.

Her lips tingled, her skin sizzled and her breathing wasn’t quite the same as before he’d kissed her.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, her voice thick. It would have been so much easier if he had not.

He looked at her then, his golden skin so beautiful, his eyes still hot as they slipped over her. How many women had melted under the force of that gaze? How
many had taken one look at that face and body and burned with need?

Hundreds. Thousands.

Her included.

“Because you wanted me to,” he said.

She shook her head to deny it, but stopped abruptly. What would be the point? She
had
wanted him to kiss her. But she knew what it felt like now, and she would never be so weak again. “Now that you have, I’d like you to go,” she said firmly.

“You and I both know that’s not going to happen, Isabella.”

Isabella drew in a sharp breath. The man had a hearing problem. “You can’t force me to return to Jahfar. I’m an American citizen, and there are laws here that prevent such things.”

He looked so coolly elegant, in spite of his casual clothing, in spite of the way she’d crushed his shirt in her fists and wrinkled the fine silk.

“Nevertheless, you will go—”

“There’s no reason,” she insisted.

“There is every reason!” he thundered, the fine edge of his temper bared at last. “You will cease being so selfish, Isabella. You will do this for Rafiq, if for no other reason.”

Isabella hugged herself as a river of ice water poured down her spine. She was tired and confused and ready for this to be over. “I’m sorry you think I’m being selfish, but I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know you. And I don’t know who Rafiq is, either.”

Adan’s eyes were so cold in his handsome face. Like black ice as he gazed at her with unconcealed contempt. He was angrier than she’d yet seen him.

He pronounced the next words very precisely, each one carefully measured, each one like a blow to her subconscious as the full effect landed on her with the force of a sandstorm whipping through a purple Jahfaran sky.

“Rafiq is our son.”

T
HE
interior of Adan’s private jet was sumptuous, but Isabella hardly noticed. She’d been in shock since the moment he’d told her they had a child. It had felt as if someone was slicing into her heart with a rusty knife. How could she have given birth to a child and not know it?

It was surreal.

But as much as her mind kept telling her that everything he said was impossible, her heart whispered doubts. Her heart said that something had happened to her two years ago, and that a car wreck didn’t explain it nearly as well as she would like.

She’d gone with him then. She’d let him take her back to her condo where she’d packed a suitcase and called the landlord to tell him she would be gone for a couple of weeks. Adan had stood by impassively, not saying a word as she’d readied herself. He’d looked around the small living space as if it were completely foreign to him. As if he were horrified she would live there.

Which, she supposed, he probably was. He was a prince of Jahfar. Princes did not live in studios that weren’t much bigger than a large shoebox.

They’d ridden to the airport in silence, then boarded
the sleek Boeing business jet and taken off shortly thereafter. Now they were somewhere high over the Pacific Ocean, and Isabella sat in a large reclining leather chair and stared out the window at nothing but blackness. On a small table in front of her was an untouched glass of papaya juice. She shivered involuntarily. She’d put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and grabbed a light jacket, but still she was cold.

“Would you like a blanket, ma’am?” one of the flight attendants asked.

“Thank you, yes,” Isabella replied. Her voice sounded scratchy, distant, as if she weren’t accustomed to using it. The attendant returned with the blanket and a pillow. Isabella wrapped herself in the plush fabric. This wasn’t one of those cheap excuses for a blanket used on major airlines these days. It was thick and soft and smelled like spice.

A few moments later, Adan sank into the chair across from her. She hadn’t seen him since shortly after they’d gotten airborne. He’d said he had business to attend to and had disappeared into his private office. Now, he clutched a sheaf of papers. His gaze was disturbing. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the kiss they’d shared in Ka Nui’s, or simply because he caused something to tighten inside her every time he looked at her.

Or maybe it was because he despised her.

“You haven’t touched your drink,” he said.

“I’m not thirsty.” She dropped her gaze, conscious suddenly that she was still wearing heavy stage makeup. She hadn’t thought to wash her face in the rush to grab her suitcase and change clothes. He hadn’t rushed her, but she’d felt as if she had to hurry. As if the answers
were thousands of miles away and she needed to get there as soon as possible.

“I thought you might like to see these,” he said, holding out the papers.

She took them cautiously, not really certain she did want to see them, but knowing she had no choice but to look. For herself. For her sanity. Not because he was forcing her to, but because she needed to know.

Her heart began to thrum.

She looked at the first sheet. It was an article from
Al-Arab Jahfar.

Prince Weds Daughter of Prominent Businessman.

There was a photo of her and Adan. He was so handsome in his traditional clothing, with a ceremonial dagger at his waist. He looked solemn, as if he were performing a duty.

Which he no doubt had been.
We met a week before the wedding …

She was smiling, but she didn’t look happy. Her dress was a beaded silk
abaya
in a deep saffron color. She wore the sheerest
hijab,
the fabric filmy and beautiful where it skimmed her hair.

She glanced up, saw Adan watching her closely. He was sprawled in his chair like a potentate, one elbow propped on the armrest, his index finger sliding absently back and forth over his bottom lip. His dark eyes gave nothing away.

Isabella slid the article to the bottom of the pile. The next one sent her heart into her throat.

It was a birth announcement. Rafiq ibn Adan Al Dhakir, born April fourth.

Tears pressed against the backs of her eyes. She wanted to sob. She bit her lip, hard, to stop the tears from coming. She wanted to shove the papers at him and tell him to take them away, but gritted her teeth and told herself she would do this. She would look at them and she would survive it.

Because everything she’d known, everything she’d believed—about herself, about her parents—was shattered and lying broken at her feet. She wasn’t who she thought she was.

She was this woman, this Princess Isabella Al Dhakir, who had a baby and a husband. Who should have had a perfect life, but who was sitting here broken and alone.

She uncovered the next article with trembling fingers.

This one proclaimed her missing. From her father’s house, where she’d gone to visit after the birth of her child. Evidence suggested she’d walked into the desert. A sandstorm had stopped the rescue effort for three days. When it resumed, there was no trace of her.

She thought of her father’s house at the edge of the wilds of Jahfar. He loved to tame nature. He had a pool, fountains and grass on the edge of the hottest, starkest land imaginable.

And she had willingly walked alone into that desert?

The fourth article made the numbness creep over her again. It was small, a quarter sheet, the words stark against the white background.

Dead …

She quickly flipped to the next page. A marriage
contract, spelling out everything her father and Adan had agreed to. She didn’t read it. She didn’t need to.

She closed her eyes and dropped the papers on the table between them, then clasped her hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see them shaking. She was his wife. The mother of his child.

And she couldn’t remember any of it. Isabella tried so hard to conjure up an image of a baby in her arms, but she couldn’t do it.

What was wrong with her? How could a mother forget her own baby? She turned her head away on the seat back and dug her fingernails into her palms. She would not cry. She could not cry in front of him. She couldn’t be weak.

“Do you still wish to deny the truth?” Adan asked.

She shook her head, unable to speak for fear she would lose control.

“Why did you do it, Isabella? Why did you leave your baby son? Did you not think of him even once?”

It took her several moments to answer.

“I don’t remember doing it,” she forced out, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t remember anything about that … that night. In the newspaper.”

She thought he wouldn’t believe her, that he would demand to know the truth, demand she stop lying. But he blew out a breath and looked away before turning to pierce her with his dark stare again. “Tell me what you do know, then. Tell me how you got to Hawaii.”

She wanted to be defiant, but she was too mentally drained to conjure up even a hint of strength. “I was in Jahfar, and then I was at my mother’s house in South Carolina,” she said, hugging the blanket tighter. “I don’t remember when I left, or how I got there. My father
says it’s because of the accident. Because I hit my head in the crash and was in a coma for five weeks. I don’t remember the accident, but the doctor said that was normal.

“After, I spent time recuperating at my mother’s before I moved out on my own.”

“You didn’t want to return to Jahfar?”

“No, not really. I thought of it from time to time, but my father told me to stay in the States. He said he traveled a lot now, and there was no reason for me to return yet.”

“Hawaii is rather far from South Carolina,” he mused.

It was, and yet she’d been pulled there by homesickness. “I missed the sea, and the palms. I went there for a short vacation but ended up staying.”

“Why did you change your name?”

“I didn’t change it. Bella Tyler is a stage name,” she said, not wanting to admit that she’d wanted to be someone else, that calling herself by another name had been an effort to make her feel different. More confident. Less alone.

“And why were you singing in a club, Isabella? Did you need money?”

He no doubt thought so based on the size of her condo, but it was perfectly adequate for Maui. And more expensive than he might imagine.

“No. My father sent me plenty. But I sang karaoke one day, for fun. The next I knew, I was performing.”

A disapproving frown made his sensual mouth seem hard. “A lounge singer.”

Isabella felt heat prickle over her skin. “I
like
to sing.

I’ve always liked to sing. And I’m good at it,” she said proudly.

“I never heard you sing before tonight.”

“I sang plenty growing up, but it was for myself. If I never sang for you, then I suppose I was afraid to. Afraid you would disapprove.”

“I might not have,” he said softly.

“I must have thought so.”

“Perhaps you did.” He was unapologetic.

Isabella clutched the blanket in a fist. This was such an odd conversation. She was married to this man, and yet he was a stranger to her. They were strangers to each other, if this conversation was anything to go by.

“We must not have spent a lot of time together,” she ventured.

“Enough,” he said, his eyes suddenly hot, intense.

Isabella dipped her head, hoping she wasn’t blushing. Clearly she wasn’t a virgin, and yet she couldn’t remember anything about her first sexual experience with him. About
any
sexual experience with him.

“How long were we married before … the baby?”

“You were pregnant the first month. And you disappeared only a month after Rafiq was born.”

She pressed a hand to her stomach beneath the blanket. It was so hard to imagine she’d ever been pregnant. “So we weren’t together a year.”

He gave his head a shake. “Not quite, no.”

She was trying so hard to process it. Because they
were
married. He hadn’t faked a bunch of documents to prove it to her. These were printed copies of actual newspaper articles.

Far more likely—and harder to understand, quite honestly—was the fact her parents had lied. Oh, she
didn’t really expect that her mother had orchestrated this fiction Isabella had been living with—or that she’d had a problem going along with it. No, it was her father who’d done so.

And Isabella couldn’t figure out why.

Was Adan abusive? Had her hurt her? Was her father simply being protective?

She considered it, but she didn’t believe that was the case. Because Adan had been very angry with her, yes, and he’d been arrogant and presumptuous. But he hadn’t for one moment made her feel physically threatened. If he had, she wouldn’t be here.

Or at least not willingly.

She was uncomfortable with him—but not because she feared him.

Isabella pressed two fingers to her temple. It was so much to process.

“Does your head hurt?” Adan asked suddenly.

She was surprised at the answer. “Yes.” She’d been so focused that she hadn’t realized her temple was beginning to throb. Soon, the headache would spread to the other side. And she’d left her migraine medicine on the kitchen counter. She didn’t get them often, but when she did, they weren’t in the least bit pleasant.

Adan pressed a button on his seat and a flight attendant appeared. He ordered a glass of water and some ibuprofen. When it arrived, she gulped down the tablets, though she didn’t expect they would do any good.

“Perhaps you should sleep,” he said. “There’s a bedroom at the back, and a bathroom where you can wash your face.”

She should sleep, and yet she couldn’t quite yet. “Do you have a picture of him?” she asked quietly.

The corners of his mouth grew tight. Then he pulled out his cell phone and pressed a few buttons. When he held it out to her, the breath caught in her throat.

The little boy staring at the camera was adorable, of course. But it was more than that. She gazed at his face in wonder, searching for signs of her own features. She saw Adan easily in the dark hair and dark eyes. But the chin, that was hers. And the shape of the nose.

A tear slipped free and slid down her cheek. “He’s two now?”

Adan nodded as he took the phone back. She wasn’t ready to stop looking at the photo, and yet she couldn’t ask him to let her see it again.

She’d missed so much. So damn much. His first word. His first step. She scrubbed a hand across her face. Her head throbbed. Her stomach churned. She wasn’t sure if it was the headache or the heartache causing it, but she felt physically ill.

Isabella shot to her feet. Adan rose with the grace of a hunting panther, his brows drawn together. “What is wrong?”

“I have to—the bathroom.”

Adan pointed and Isabella bolted for the door. She made it just in time, heaving the contents of her stomach into the toilet. When she finally straightened, she caught sight of her face in the mirror. She looked like hell. Like a girl who’d got into her mother’s makeup and put way too much on in an effort to look more grown-up.

Isabella turned on the taps—bronze taps on an airplane, so much fancier than the usual airline bathroom—and began to scrub her face with hot water and soap. The tears started to flow as she scrubbed. She tried to stop
it at first, but then decided to let herself cry. He would never hear her with the water running.

She scrubbed hard, as if she could scrub away the past two years and clean her memory free of the black curtain cloaking it at the same time. Her head continued to pound, but she cried and scrubbed until the makeup was gone and her tears were finished.

She hoped Adan would be gone by the time she returned to her seat—in his office, or sleeping in one of the staterooms—but she wasn’t that lucky.

He looked up as she approached. His expression didn’t change, but she was certain he hadn’t missed a thing. She looked like hell. Her face was pink and her eyes, though not puffy yet, soon would be from the crying.

“You are ill?” he asked.

“It’s the migraine,” she replied, shrugging. “If I have my medicine, it doesn’t get that bad, but without it …”