In Too Deep by Brenda Jackson, Olivia Gates Page B

to mourn, so she tried to show him that she wanted nothing but to lose herself in his arms, that his intimacy would be the best salve for her grief.
    When that didn’t work, she looked everywhere for a reason for his withdrawal. She got a possible explanation when Jameel, his right-hand man who also supervised her hashyah —her entourage as a princess—told her there was a forty-day mourning period in Khumayrah, where normal life was interrupted to observe bereavement.
    Now it was three weeks later, and she could no longer buy this. It was understandable to cancel their honeymoon in their situation, but to not come near her at all? To treat her like a stranger and not the bride she’d thought he hadn’t been able to wait to possess again? That, she couldn’t understand.
    Just this morning, she’d again tried to speak to him. And again, he hadn’t given her a chance.
    He whisked her to the Hamptons for the start of the polo season, informing her of his many interests there. He was a player on one of the teams, as well as a patron who provided their horses, and a friend and associate to many of the pivotal people in the Bridgehampton Polo Club.
    And here she was, in another one of his mansions, thisone even more impressive than the last—a spectacular estate on a dozen acres in a prime Bridgehampton South location, with a stunning floor plan, top-of-the-line building materials and masterful finishes. Its three floors covered thirty-six thousand square feet, and the grounds included a unique recreation pavilion. He’d said he liked to have his own residence when he came every year for the tournaments, and he needed all that space to accommodate his entourage and security.
    He’d installed her in the master suite that boasted Bordeaux walnut floors, exquisite decor and an expansive en suite bathroom with gold fixtures and onyx walls and floors. The only thing it didn’t include was her groom. “Sabrina.”
    She jerked out of her morbid musings. Adham.
    His voice had come from the suite’s sitting-room door. Fathomless, irresistible, the exotic inflections of his native Khumayran that mixed with his upper-crust British accent turning her name into an invocation.
    In spite of the crushed expectations and confusion of the past weeks, hope surged, making her dizzy with it.
    Maybe he would come to her at last. Maybe he had withdrawn to give her time to mourn her father, and had postponed their wedding night until he was sure she was up to withstanding his passion.
    If that was it, she’d thank him for his consideration and adherence to his culture’s mourning rituals, then scold him for not understanding the last thing she needed was to feel cut off with her grief. She didn’t need space and time. She needed him.
    Her breath caught in her lungs as she leaned back on the king-size, white-lace-covered bed. He’d walk in any second now.
    Seconds stretched. Then she heard his receding footsteps.
    She sat up, stunned. He’d called only so she’d come out, and walked away when she hadn’t, rather than be in a bedroom with her? Why?
    Then you call him, you moron. Find out why. Once and for all.
    â€œAdham.”
    But she was too late. The door clicked closed behind him.
    And she couldn’t take it anymore. She exploded from the bed, running after him.
    She called out again as she pursued him. But even though he must have heard her, he strode ahead undeterred.
    This time, so would she. She had to get to the bottom of this or lose her mind.
    She ran after him through the maze of a dazzling parterre, her heels grinding the gravel paths. She caught up with him before he lowered himself into the driver’s seat of a gleaming black Jaguar that seemed like an extension of him, of his power and potency.
    He turned to her, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, his face blank. God. She missed his smile.
    â€œSabrina.” That revving R, underlining