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 …”
“You did not bring this medicine, I take it.”
“I was a bit preoccupied.”
“Tell me the name of this drug,” he commanded. “It will be waiting for you when we arrive in Jahfar.”
She
