Marriage Behind the Fa?ade by Lynn Raye Harris Page A

mastered by his touch.
    And neither of them would gain anything by such a demonstration.
    Malik took a step backward, bowed to her. “It is late, habibti. You need your rest.”
    Then he pivoted and strode away from her. Back to his bedroom. Back to his solitude.
    Sydney did not sleep well. There were things she wanted to ask Malik, things she’d meant to say when they’d stood on the terrace together. He’d been so approachable for once, so raw in his feelings. It was a side of him she’d never seen before. She’d been drawn to him—a dangerous feeling—and she’d wanted to know more.
    But he’d shut down again. Withdrawn. Left her standing there with the wind and lightning and her tangled emotions.
    She’d considered following him, but dismissed the thought as foolhardy. He would be angry if she did so. Not only that, but how could she control what might happen if she followed him to his bedroom?
    Because she was so weak where he was concerned. She could still feel his chest where she’d pressed her palms against him. The hard contours, the blazing heat of his skin, the crisp hair. She’d ached with want. With memories of bliss.
    And when she finally did fall asleep, she was troubled by dreams of him, by the agony in his voice when he’d told her about Dimah. Why had he never told her before? Why, in the weeks they’d been together, had he never told her?
    It was another symptom of everything that had been wrong between them. Everything she’d been too blind to see. They’d barely known one another, subsisting instead on reckless passion and heated lovemaking. That could only last so long before it burned itself out.
    After a restless night, she awoke early. The sun was just creeping into the sky when she showered and dressed in a fitted mocha sheath and a pair of gladiator sandals. Then she put her hair in a ponytail and applied the barest of lipstick and mascara before making her way to the dining room.
    Her heart thudded in her throat as she paused outside the door. She could hear Malik’s smooth voice as he spoke with one of the staff. Sydney sucked in a deep breath and walked into the room.
    Two sets of eyes turned to look at her. Malik’s dark gaze was angry, but it was the woman with him who drew Sydney’s attention. She was slender, elegant, expensively dressed—and livid.
    Definitely not a staff member.
    She turned back to Malik, spewed a tirade of Arabic at him while gesturing to Sydney.
    “Mother,” Malik said at last, his voice harder than she’d ever heard it, “we will speak in English for the benefit of my wife.”
    His mother? Oh, God.
    The other woman glared at her. “Yes, English. And you say this girl is not unsuitable to be an Al Dhakir? She does not even speak Arabic!”
    “Language can be learned. As your command of English proves.”
    His mother bristled in outrage. “You should have done your duty, Malik. Your father let you off too easily after Dimah died. Adan found you a suitable bride, at my request, but you would not do what you should.” The rings on the princess’s fingers glittered in the morning light as she took a sip of her coffee.
    “I preferred to find my own bride. Which, as you see, I have done.” Malik looked murderously angry as he came over and snaked an arm around her. Sydney had no idea what his intent was—she was still stunned by the news that Adan had found Malik a bride, and that he’d refused to marry her.
    When Malik pulled her close and dropped a kiss on her lips, Sydney could only gasp.
    “Mother, you will greet my wife properly. Or you will leave.”
    “Malik,” Sydney began, “that’s not necessary.”
    His grip on her tightened. “It is completely necessary. This is our home.”
    His mother got to her feet in an elegant flurry of fabric and jewels. “I was leaving anyway.”
    Sydney watched Malik’s mother start for the door. Her pulse was pounding. Her head throbbed. She felt suddenly hot, uncomfortable. This woman was Malik’s