Marriage Behind the Fa?ade by Lynn Raye Harris

plans.
    “Perhaps I married you because I felt something,” he said, his voice dipping. “Did you ever consider that possibility?”
    An ache of a different kind vibrated in her heart. “You’re just saying that. Don’t.”
    Because she couldn’t take it, not now. Not when she’d spent the last year apart from him, not when he’d failed to contact her even once during their long separation. Those were not the actions of a man who felt anything.
    Never mind the conversation she’d overheard with his brother. A conversation he did not deny having.
    His eyes gleamed in the darkened tent. “You know me so well, don’t you, Sydney? Always positive that you have my motives pegged. My emotions.”
    “You don’t have any emotions,” she flung at him. He stiffened as if she’d hit him, tension rolling from him in waves.
    Her heart lurched, her throat constricting against a painful knot. She shouldn’t have said that. This was a man who’d told her, with such anguish, that he’d been responsible for the death of a girl.
    Malik felt things. She knew he did.
    But she still doubted he’d ever felt much for her. Nevertheless, that did not give her the right.
    She dropped her gaze from his, swallowed. There was no moisture in her mouth. “Forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”
    He sounded stiff, formal. “I think we both know you did.”
    You don’t have any emotions.
    Malik couldn’t put the words out of his head, no matter how he tried. The sun had sunk behind the dunes hours ago now, and the desert air chilled him. He sat with a group of Bedu who’d gathered around a fire, smoking shishas and drinking coffee. He let their talk wash over him, around him. He spoke when necessary, but always his mind was elsewhere.
    You don’t have any emotions.
    He had emotions, but he’d learned at an early age to bury them deep. If you didn’t react, no one could hurt you. He’d stopped crying for his mother when he was three, stopped crying for his nanny at six.
    And he’d grown determined, the older he got, that no one would force him to do what he did not want to do. Ever. He’d had little choice when he was young, but once he’d reached the age of majority, he’d been determined to make his own decisions, regardless of what his family thought.
    He was the third son. His recalcitrance would be annoying, but not shattering. Indeed, his father, beyond the marriage with Dimah, had seemed in no rush to arrange another wedding for him. But once Adan became their uncle’s heir, his mother grew determined to see each of her sons married and producing heirs. No doubt to consolidate their family’s grip on the throne.
    As if it were necessary. There were at least four Al Dhakirs who could inherit—and there would soon be more since Isabella was pregnant.
    He’d always intended to take a proper Jahfaran wife. When he was ready. But first he’d wanted to have fun.
    You have no emotions.
    He could still see Sydney’s face, the paleness of her skin. She’d looked drawn, tired. Her voice had shook as she’d accused him of marrying her to avoid another arranged marriage.
    He’d denied it, and yet—
    She had not been entirely wrong. He’d known what awaited him in Jahfar when he’d met her. He’d simply been putting off the inevitable.
    But then she’d become a part of his life, and he’d wanted her in a way he’d wanted no one else. And, for one brief moment, he’d thought, why not?
    He’d known how she felt about him. And he’d never once believed he was taking advantage of those feelings. He was a wealthy prince, considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the world, along with his brothers.
    The woman he married would be fortunate. Honored. He was a great prize, a catch beyond compare.
    Malik frowned. He’d been proud, arrogant, certain he was right. Certain he was making her life better when in fact he seemed to have made it worse.
    She’d loved him once. He knew that she had, even if