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“If this is the way you hope to win me over, you’re dead wrong.”
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….
The Sheikh’s Wife
Jane Porter
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
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
